


River of Grass

by likebunnies



Category: JAG
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 02:52:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 43,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/960719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likebunnies/pseuds/likebunnies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captured and held deep in the Florida Everglades, Harm and Mac struggle to find their way out. Fighting through a place that is only 120 miles long, 50 miles wide and with less than a foot of water on average, sometimes hell on earth can turn into heaven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	River of Grass

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to guess I wrote this sometime in 2000 or 2001. It was one of my first JAG stories. I thought I'd post some of my older works. -- Jori

Crawling across the rotting planks and onto my leg, it looks at me with little black eyes. With a red throat darting forward from its neck, it moves forward slightly, its tiny 'toes' holding on tight. I watch as its green flesh passes through several shades of brown, trying to match the tan I'm wearing. It can't quite achieve the right shade.

For some reason, I know this thing is an anole. Not a chameleon. I must have learned this when I was in Pensacola, but right now, I can't remember how or why. It is just something I know.

I go to flick it off my leg, but a stiff hand landing on my shoulder makes me think twice.

"Don't move," he says, gripping tight, fingers sinking into my skin and the underlying muscles. "Where you thinking of moving?"

I don't answer. I already was given the 'don't talk' message a few hours ago. The same hand grasping my shoulder backhanded my face and I had barely spoken a word.

He releases his solid hold on me and sweeps up the lizard with one move, his action so swift and expedient, the creature didn't even know what happened. I watch as he plucks off the tail and flicks it back at me. Nerves keep the tiny appendage dancing wildly on the ground next to me, and it looks like a flailing animal, edging ever closer to the edge of the platform we are on. Soon, it just flips itself over the edge and into the murky water below.

The man takes the lizard and crushes its small head before tossing it after its tail.

"He moved. He shouldn't have," he says, his eyes dark and wild.

He looks from me to Mac, narrowing his eyes at her. She's still unconscious from the blow she received to the head. I watch her chest rise and fall slowly, making sure she's still breathing. I don't know what I'd do if she stopped breathing. If I move, they will kill me, too. One more life means nothing to them.

Mac moans a little, struggling against the tape binding her arms. Our captor stands over her, ready to pounce at any minute, but she quiets down without ever regaining consciousness. Lucky for Mac, she doesn't have to watch this son of a bitch standing there, leering down upon her form.

The blood on her uniform has dried into a mottled brown. Blood has also dried upon her face, a thick, dark line of it from her scalp to her shirt collar. From there it fans out, the material soaking it up and drawing it down. But there is nothing fresh. Whatever was bleeding has stopped.

"I bet she's one hell of a looker when she's not all bloody, isn't she?" he asks, pushing at her legs with the toe of his boot. I can't say anything, not that I'd answer that anyway. "I can hardly wait for her to wake up so I can hear the voice that goes with that sweet face."

He takes his weapon out of the waistband of his jeans and examines it, mostly for effect. Just to let me know he has it. And that it was once in my possession.

"How do you think it would feel . . . watching her get shot with your own gun?" he asks, smoothing his hand down the side of it as if he's petting a cat. Cautiously, as if it could scratch or bite. "I mean, beyond the normal feelings? How would it feel knowing that you could have prevented it if you just didn't stick your damn nose where it didn't belong?"

I can't say anything. All I can do is look at her. How would I answer anyway? I don't even think there is an answer to that question. I could lie about dying in the line of duty to God and country, but is that what this is? All they are is bunch of renegade small arms dealers hiding out in the Everglades, knowing they made one misstep that could cost them everything. And now they are just compounding it. She shouldn't die for them. For some shallow cause that comes down to money no matter what they say.

"Nah. I wouldn't do that to her. She's too pretty. Now you on the other hand, I bet you think you're pretty, too, don't you? That would be so easy to fix," he says, tucking the weapon away again. He turns away from me, looking out over the endless water and sawgrass, toward the setting sun.

The insects will be arriving in full force soon, attracted even more by the heavy scent of sweat. The structure behind us doesn't even offer protection from them. I imagine the breeze blowing past us is all that keeps the insects away. I have no idea what these people do here in the middle of the night to protect themselves from the wildlife. All they have is a little dilapidated chickee hut on a platform. From the airboat that carried us here, I spotted a series of them, up on the hammocks, rising out of the sawgrass. They were visible only if one knew what they were looking for.

What I also noticed is that there is no way out of here without an airboat. Maybe a canoe, but without a map . . .

I hear a high pitched droning sound coming toward us, and Mac stirs again as it comes into view. It is the same airboat that brought us here, but I've never seen the man driving it before. With any luck, he'll be relieving the lizard killer from duty. I don't want to look into his untamed eyes anymore. Not without being able to do something.

The incredibly loud blast of noise ends and another man, a teenaged boy, actually, joins us on the platform, assessing us carefully before talking to his partner in a hushed tone. They are both dressed in camouflage pants and sweaty brown t-shirts, probably picked up from a military surplus store. The younger of the two men has a filthy FSU ball cap on his head, the brim turned backwards. He seems nervous, his eyes darting over us quickly.

"Is it still on?" I hear the older man ask, struggling to keep his voice down. We are so many miles from civilization that any sound is clear and untainted by city noise.

"Yeah. Cappy is expecting you to be there. He told me to watch these two until it is over. He wants them alive in case we need them," he says. He nervously lights a cigarette, blowing a cloud of smoke our way. Not a bad idea. It might keep some of the insects away.

"If she ever gets up again, give her some water," he instructs and then looks my way. "And him, too."

"Okay. Can I light the torches?" he asks, swatting something off his arm. He takes one more puff of his cigarette and sends it over the edge into the water below.

"No, asshole. They're probably out looking for these two already. You want the whole United States Marine Corps descending upon you because you were scared of the dark?" he says, giving the kid a smack across the back of his head.

He looks embarrassed, not wanting to be reprimanded in front of me. Just as long as he doesn't have to do something to prove his 'manhood' we should be okay, because he also looks scared. And I'm sure he doesn't want to face the consequences of his actions as it stands now without murder added to the list.

"I won't light them," he says, looking at his watch quickly.

"Here. Take this. Use it if you have to," the man says, handing over my weapon. The younger man holds it up, examining it closely before tucking it away in his waistband.

The older man checks our binds once more before he descends to the airboat. It is incredibly loud as it whirs away and the man we are now left with says nothing until it is our of earshot.

"You a pilot?" he asks, looking me over before pulling a bag out of the structure behind me. He begins to dig around before pulling out a bottle of something. I look him over just as carefully, not knowing whether I should speak or not. "Go ahead. You can talk, no matter what Andy said. It will get damn boring here if you don't say anything. She doesn't seem to be much of a conversationalist."

"I'm a pilot," is all I answer. He doesn't need to know more.

"So is Andy. Well, sorta. He keeps wrecking the planes, but they just buy him another one," he says, chuckling at Andy's 'misfortune.'

"What's your name?" I ask, and he looks at me cautiously before answering.

"They call me Crash on account of the fact that I wrecked my first car after only having it three hours," he says, a smile crossing his face at the memory.

"Andy wrecks the planes and yet they call you Crash?" I ask and he just nods. "So, who keeps buying these planes, Crash?"

"I think you know that by now," he says, his voice growing cold instantly. "I think you know most everything by now."

"I have a good idea of what is going on. But so do you. And you know you are involved in something serious," I say, wanting to convince him to get out of this mess before it becomes worse.

"It isn't going to work, these games you're going to try to play. I believe in what we are doing and . . . " he starts to say. He doesn't finish, but turns to look at the last sliver of sun slip below the tree line.

"You are willing to die for a revolution that isn't even yours?" I finish, but he doesn't answer. Just lights a cigarette and smokes it without turning back around. "Or is it just the money?"

He spins around quickly, spilling ashes as he goes. "No way, man. Have you ever been willing to die for anything?"

I think my eyes, if not the uniform I have on, answer that question for him, and he takes a nervous drag on his cigarette. "Of course," is all I answer.

"Then I don't think I need to say more," Crash says, sitting down on the platform keeping us up out of the swamp water.

"Can I at least check her?" I ask, pulling at the tape binding my arms. "It isn't like I have anywhere to run to."

He looks at me suspiciously a moment before slicing the tape from my arms with a hunting knife. "Don't you even thing about trying anything. You wouldn't survive one night out there."

And the pity of it is he's right. I'm not even sure where we are or which direction I would have to go in. I watched Andy go off in the airboat, but there's no guarantee he didn't turn around and double back just to throw me off.

I check Mac's pulse, and it is still strong in spite of the injuries she sustained. I move my fingers through her hair carefully, not wanting to open any wounds or cause any bleeding. Whatever it was, it doesn't seem to be very deep. I just wish she'd wake up so I could be sure.

"Here. Rub this on her or else she'll get eaten alive," Crash says, handing me a bottle of Skin So Soft. I rub some between my hands before covering her arms and face with it. I slide her uniform shirt over just a little to get it on her neck and any flesh that might be exposed. I see Crash divert his eyes as I do this. Something's up with this kid. Now I just have to find out what.

"She's going to become dehydrated soon," I say, as I try to make her more comfortable. "And you better hope she doesn't go into shock."

"I'm assuming you would know what to do," he says, looking down at her once again.

"Yeah. But there isn't a whole hell of a lot I can do way out here," I say, surveying my surroundings once more now that I'm allowed to stand. I can barely make out some kind of canoe moving under the chickee structure and I hear it bang lightly against the wooden piling. That's the only way out of here.

"You better put some of that on yourself," he says, and I coat myself with the greasy liquid before handing him the bottle.

I sit down again, closer to Mac, and he doesn't seem to be in a hurry to tie my wrists up again. He probably assumes I'm not going without Mac and she's not going anywhere. And that would be a correct assumption.

"So, Crash, where did you grow up? Around here?" I ask, looking at the miles of nothingness.

"Actually, I'm from Chokoloskee. Grew up with the 'glades," he answers with a self confident smirk across his face. A slight warning not to try anything because he knows this place better than I ever will.

"What about Andy?" I ask, hoping to get some insight into our captors. I don't think he's running the show, but I have yet to meet this Cappy person.

"Andy? He's from Homestead. Or at least that is where he grew up. Don't know where he says he's from now," Crash says. He pulls a bottle of water out of his bag and downs half of it. "Want some?"

I take the bottle from him and swallow down a few sips. He nods at Mac, and I try to wet her lips with a few drops. She moves around a little, but still doesn't wake up. Damn it, Mac. You've got to get up.

I hand it back to him and he tucks it away again. The sun is finally gone, and all we can do is sit and watch each other under the glow of the full moon.

***********************

"Harm?" Mac's voice creaks, barely audible over all the nature noises. The insects and frogs have made a chorus all their own, making it hard for me to fall asleep.

"I'm right here," I say, edging toward her until she can feel that I am here.

"What happened?" she asks. I watch as she struggles to move her hands, discovering they are bound.

"We ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. You know, the usual," I say, and she smiles just a little before wincing. "I think you will be okay. You took quite a blow to the head, but it isn't deep."

"It feels like I lost a battle with a tire iron," she says, trying to raise her hands to her head.

"Close, but I think it was a Mag Lite. Hey, Crash! Wake up!" I shout at the kid who is supposed to be watching us. Instead, he's curled up in a ball and sleeping soundly.

"What!" he shouts back, startled out of whatever dream world he might have been lost in.

"Col. MacKenzie is coming to. Can you help me out here so I can give her some water," I say, turning toward him so he can release my arms again. "And cut her free for a few minutes, okay? She's not going anywhere."

Mac sits up slowly, the exhaustive effort to stay upright evident on her face. After cutting us free, Crash hands me a fresh bottle of water, warm now, but that doesn't matter. I tip it for her and Mac takes a few swallows before shaking her head 'no.' Crash has already gone back to his corner of the world, looking like any teenager who's sleep was interrupted.

"If they got me by clubbing me over the head, how did they get you?" she asks, her voice sounding less parched now. She rubs her arms with her hands, trying to get her circulation going.

"You'll never know," I say with a smile and she looks me over in the dim light of the moon.

"You don't seem to be bleeding profusely. Don't tell me you willingly came out here because I was captured?" she asks, looking disappointed.

"Well, someone has to watch over you," I say and she begins shivering even thought the air temperature must be in the upper eighties. The humidity makes if feel in the nineties. She's sweating and shivering at the same time.

"I see you are doing a great job of it," she says, as she tries to wrap her arms around her legs and pull her knees closer to her chest. I feel her forehead. She's running a slight fever, which might explain the chills. She doesn't appear shocky at all. Just exhausted.

"Hey, Crash. Can she have that extra sleeping bag? She's running a fever and has the chills," I say, and the rolled up bag comes flying at me. After unrolling it, I wrap it around her shoulders and she settles into it.

"That is who they left us with? Can't we take him out and get the hell out of here? I am a Marine after all . . ." she says in a whisper, looking at the skinny kid who's holding us here.

"Where are we going to go? We are in the middle of the largest designated wilderness in the southeastern United States without a map. A wilderness filled with rather unsavory characters, and I don't just mean the humans," I say softly, looking out as far as I can see in the darkness. Absolutely nothing out there. Not a single sound of civilization. I've only heard one commercial jet liner fly over in the hours we've been here.

"I seriously doubt they are going to wrap up their business and drop us off at the airport, Harm. We have to think of something," she whispers. She tugs at her uniform shirt, stiff now with dried blood. Although she is awake, she doesn't sound right yet. "We have to take a chance and get out of here."

"Mac, you've barely been conscious for ten minutes. I don't think now is the time for us to go drifting off in canoe without knowing where we are going," I say, and she looks away from me. Both of us walked into this one blindly. Missing weapons. A suspected Petty Officer who fled to Florida last week. Our investigation never led us to him. Just the fine folks he was selling to.

"I'm so tired," she says, moving to lie down again. Her eyes begin to flutter shut quickly.

"Come on, Mac. Stay up just a little longer," I say, worried she might be suffering a concussion. She needs to stay awake now that she is conscious.

"I can't," she mumbles, and I pull her up and hold her, trying to keep her awake.

"What in the hell are you two doing over there?" Crash calls out, noticing our proximity. I thought he would be back to sleep by now.

"I'm trying to keep the Colonel awake until I can assess the degree of her injuries. What in the hell did you think we were doing over here?" I call back and he settles back into his spot once more. "Mac?"

"Hmm?" she asks, nearly asleep. Her face is against my chest and she feels hot. Too hot. I need to get her out of this swamp and to a hospital.

"You let me know when you are ready to take him out. We have got to get out of here while you still can."  
***************

The sun has barely peaked over the eastern horizon when the sound of an approaching airboat assaults our senses again. It sounds like a mosquito jacked up on testosterone until it draws next to the platform and the engine sputters to a stop. Not quite as loud as a flight deck, but just as unpleasant.

Mac sits up and moans, her body clearly still recovering from getting whacked over the head and tossed onto a boat. She squints at the newcomer. This will be the first time she gets to meet Andy while she's conscious. Mac's going to wish she were still out if he's anything like he was during our last meeting.

"You untied them?" I hear Andy ask loudly, his voice just as nasty as it was yesterday. Obviously, he got up on the wrong side of the bargaining table this morning.

"They aren't going anywhere," Crash says, as he stands up quickly, trying to look like he has been running the show overnight. Mostly, he snored quietly in his corner. "Besides, I had them tied up most of the night."

"It's your ass on the line. If you think you can afford to sleep while they are untied, then you will suffer the consequences," Andy says, digging through a canvas bag. He returns with a roll of duct tape and grabs my arms, pinning them behind me. He rips off a strip of tape and wraps my wrists tighter than they ever before, causing me to grimace in pain as my muscles try to adjust to this position. "Stop wiggling, boy, or I'll tape your mouth, too."

I try to stay still and he moves on to Mac. He's only a little more gentle with her, but her wrists still end up bound tightly behind her.

"Do you have to wrap her up so tight?" I ask and am answered with a finger shoved in my face.

"Don't move. And don't talk until I say you can. You do those things and I might think about letting Crash give you some food. Or at least give her some food. Got to keep her energy up for later, don't we, Crash?" he asks, laughing heartily at some sick suggestion.

Crash laughs nervously, just to go along with Andy, but his eyes give him away. He is in over his head and going down fast. I doubt when he woke up yesterday, he really planned on any of this. They probably told him how simple it would all be. Weapons get exchanged for currency and they would be out of there. Mac sneers at the man but he doesn't seem to care.

"Andy, did it happen already? Is it done?" Crash asks anxiously. He wants this to be over with. I can tell. And it will work to my advantage yet.

"Shut up, you fool!" he shouts at the kid and looks at Mac and me. "How much you want to be telling them?"

"Sorry . . . Andy . . . I just figured . . ." Crash tries to say, stumbling over his words.

"Figured what? That we're going to kill them when it is all done? Maybe we will. Maybe we won't. They might come in handy later on," Andy says, tapping my leg with the toe of his alligator skin boot.

"We're just getting in more trouble. It isn't like they'll be able to find us after . . ." Crash starts to say, and this time he gets backhanded across the face. Mac and I both look away momentarily, not wanting him to feel worse than he already does.

"Who says I'm going to take you with, anyway? Why don't you just get the hell out of here? Run home to your mama, boy. Then you won't have to worry about what happens to them," Andy barks and Crash cowers down toward his stuff. "Go on! Get out of here!"

With Andy hovering over him, Crash shoves a few things in his bag before taking off down the ladder to the airboat. He throws his bag up on the seat and only looks back once.

The incredible noise starts up again, and he heads off toward the south. No wonder they are illegal in the actual park. The noise alone is enough to outlaw them, then the damage they can do flying over the sawgrass is immense. Not that these people care. Soon, the buzzing dies off in the distance and Mac and I both turn our eyes up toward Andy.

"Well, looks like it is just going to be the three of us for a while. Why don't you two tell me what the government knows and how they found out about me?" Andy says. He pulls himself up on to the railing and peers down upon us, waiting for us to come forth with answers.

"We don't . . ." Mac begins to say, but he cuts her off.

"Don't play dumb with me, Marine. You're here investigating some weapons stolen by a Petty Officer David Jacobs. I don't have 'em. You want to know who does?" Andy asks, looking down at us with a big grin.

"The people you sold them to last night?" I ask and he shakes his head.

"Maybe. Maybe not. Or maybe I don't deal in arms. There are so many other things I could be doing out here in the 'glades," Andy says, rocking slightly on the railing. The old wooden planks creak under his weight and he stops.

"I seriously doubt you could convince a kid like Crash that drugs are a good enough cause to die for. But he's willing to die for whatever it is you convinced him to believe in," I say, my eyes holding his steely glare. "Now, what is that exactly?"

"Don't look at me like I'm starting my own militia group out here in this damn muck hole. I'm not," he says, looking over the edge of the platform at the water below.

"You are just supplying arms to one?" Mac asks and he turns to watch her. "And Crash is playing on both sides. That is why he mentioned dying for his cause. A cause you don't even believe in."

"Does Crash look smart enough to play on any side, lady?" he asks with a snort. "Crash is young and idealistic. He wants to be part of something and the bigger the better. He thinks this is his big opportunity. But they don't want him anymore than I do."

"Who doesn't want him?" I ask, hoping he'll slip and supply us with as much information as he wants us to give.

"Right. You already know that," he says, sliding down off the rail and pacing around us.

Unfortunately, we don't know. On a tip from Petty Officer Jacobs' jailed accomplice, we traced him to South Florida, but the trail grew cold from there. No Jacobs. No weapons. Nothing. Until yesterday when someone called in a lead. Too bad it led us right to this man.

"What anti-Castro group are you dealing with?" Mac asks. He stops pacing, standing directly over top of her, and shakes his head.

"Just because we're in South Florida doesn't mean it has anything to do with Castro," he says, putting his hands on his hips in a rather defensive posture. "Florida does not revolve around Cuba. Or drugs . . ."

"Really?" I ask and he rolls his eyes just a little.

"Really. Think about it. How in the hell would some little militia group take on Cuba with that amount of weaponry? And why would the drug cartels need what Jacobs could steal . . . or others like Jacobs? Shit. They could buy their own military . . . and in most countries, they have. They don't need little crap like what Jacobs got out under your noses," Andy says.

He acts as if he wants to tell us what we are looking for, if only to rub our noses into our own apparent stupidity.

"Seeing that there isn't much of a chance you are going to let us go and blow the whistle on your whole backwater production here, why don't you just tell us who it is. Dead lawyers can't prosecute," I say and he quickly slips into his finger pointing self again.

"I'm not a murderer," he says, leaning down to jab his index finger into my chest. "I may be a lot of things, but I'm not that. You got it?"

"Then you tell me how this is going to work otherwise," I say, moving back away from his touch.

"You'll find out soon enough. Now I have to go chase down my airboat before that boy crashes it into something," Andy says, removing his sharp finger from my proximity.

"You are going to leave us here alone and tied up?" I ask, beginning to worry about the heat that will soon descend upon us. "You have to at least give us some water."

Andy 'generously' sets a bottle of water between us and smacks his lips. "God, I wish I could see how you two are going to manage that one. But even if you get each other untied, just remember what is living out there. I wouldn't step off this platform too quickly."

We watch as he unties the canoe I saw beneath this structure yesterday. He gives us a snide salute as he paddles off in the direction of his other boat.

Mac and I say nothing until he is far enough away not to hear.

"You got any ideas on what do to about this?" Mac asks, pulling her bound wrists apart as hard as she can.

"Turn around and we'll move toward each other. We've got to be able to get out of this somehow."

*******************

"So, do I get to tie you up again before he gets back?" I ask Mac as she crawls around me to loosen the tape.

"Be careful or I might just leave you like this," she says, before yanking the tape hard and fast. It rips off what feels like every hair and and a layer of flesh from my wrists.

"Ouch!" I exclaim, and she examines the job she did.

"Better than wax," she says with a smile before the seriousness of our situation settles in again. "So, how do we get out of here?"

"We don't," I say, standing up and stretching my legs.

"What?" she asks. I notice she's not as quick about standing as I was. I lightly touch her forehead and she's still running a low grade fever. I help her to her feet and we stand at the railing, absorbing our surroundings.

"You aren't well. And we have no idea where we are. If we go out there, who knows where we might end up," I say, both of us still looking at the water. It isn't deep, but I can only imagine what kind of bog is right underneath. Something slithers by and we both lean over further trying to see where it went. "But when we do go, you can go first, Marine."

She turns away from the water and sighs. "So, we are being held hostage by nature on this platform?"

"Until someone realizes we are gone and they send out the park rangers, this is probably it. Unless we get the canoe. But I can only paddle so fast and they have something faster," I say, watching her brush at her shirt. The blood is dried now, making the material stiff and uncomfortable. "Maybe they have something in there you could change in to."

"I'll check," she says, and we both enter the small hut.

"Not much here," I say.

It is dark and hot. The morning breeze doesn't penetrate this room since the shutters are all closed. Cobwebs are everywhere, forming a lacy curtain that hangs from the ceiling, forcing me to duck to avoid them. Some plastic bags containing the bare necessities are scattered on the floor. Water bottles. Some canned goods. And luckily, a can opener. Mac holds up a roll of toilet paper.

"Maybe Andy isn't so bad after all," she says, putting the roll in a secure place. "Too bad he didn't leave any extra clothing here."

She wipes the sweat off her brow and we step out of the hut. The day is going to be hot even though it is late autumn and our only shelter is the stifling hut behind us.

"You want my shirt? You can wear it and rinse yours out in the water," I say.

"No, I'm okay," she says, but her hand doesn't leave the stain.

"Come on, Mac. I have on too many layers as it is with my undershirt. I'm guessing it could get up into the low nineties by late morning. Here. Take it," I say, unbuttoning my shirt and handing it to her. "I won't peek."

Mac steps back into the hut to change, reappearing after a few minutes wearing my shirt. She aslo has a bottle of water and her shirt balled up in her hand. She pours some water and uses her shirt as a rag, wiping away any trace of blood from her face and neck.

"Any ideas?" she asks, as she settles back down on her sleeping bag, her bloody shirt tossed aside. She grabs the bottle of water Andy left us and drinks down half of it.

"They didn't leave us much to work with. Short of lighting the hut on fire and using the smoke to attract attention, I don't know what else to do," I say. She leans back, looking beat already. I begin to dig through the few items that they left outside of the hut. "We've got two choices, Mac. We can either spend the day here sitting and staring at each other, or we can wander off into the swamp."

"What if they don't come back?" she asks, her voice quieter than usual. She is probably feeling worse than she's letting on.

"I'm sure someone will find us if that happens. Two JAG lawyers can't just disappear without someone noticing. Can they?" I ask, and she shakes her head 'no' but doesn't answer verbally. In another bag, I find a bottle of Tylenol and toss it to her. "Here. Take some to get that fever down. We can't do anything until you are feeling better."

"Too bad they don't have an airplane. You could fly us out of this predicament," Mac says, leaning back against the railing.

"What?"

"An airplane. I'm sure you know what . . ."

"When you were unconscious, Crash said Andy had a plane somewhere. He said Andy kept wrecking them and 'they' keep buying him new ones. If it is a seaplane, all he'd need is a long enough clear strip of waterway," I say, wishing I had a map so I could get the hell out of here.

"All he'd need . . . or all we'd need?" Mac asks, taking another sip of the water to swallow the pills. She rakes her fingers through her hair and grimaces.

"You want to use some of the water and wash the blood out? There's enough in there for that," I say, as I begin digging through the gear again. Maybe there is a chance they left something behind to indicate where this plane might be. Or any means of transportation.

"I'll wash it out in a few minutes. Harm, have you ever flown a seaplane before?" Mac asks as she watches what I'm doing.

"Once," I answer, flipping through the newspapers Crash and Andy have stowed away here. Not a single thing to help us out of this, though. "A few years ago."

"Once?" she asks, not exactly sounding confident in my abilities.

"You've been up in the Stearman with me . . . not to mention a Tomcat and we once got shot out of the sky over Russia. And you are worried about a seaplane?" I ask, surprised at her reaction.

"You were trained to fly the Stearman and the Tomcat," she answers with a smile, standing up once more. She grabs her bottle of water and heads down the ladder.

"Uh huh. You're just afraid you are going to puke again," I say, watching her descend to water level. "You need help with that?"

"I can manage," Mac answers. She tips her head forward over the edge and begins to rinse her hair, but her water bottle runs out before all the blood does. I grab another bottle and climb down the ladder to help.

"Here," I say, handing her the water.

"We shouldn't waste the drinking water," she says, refusing my offering.

"We are above a big puddle of fresh water. You want me to use that instead?" I ask and she nods 'yes.' I take the empty jug, filling it in the water below. "It isn't exactly crystal clear, but it will get the job done. Come here."

I support her as she leans back over the water and I pour carefully. Her eyes don't leave mine as I finish rinsing her hair, running my hands through it to make sure it is no longer stiff with dried blood. She doesn't even blink once. Then again, neither do I.

Somehow I manage this whole procedure without having a single drop run in her eyes or down her face and onto her . . . my shirt collar. No small miracle considering the look in her eyes.

"Where did you learn to do that?" she asks as I wring her hair out and pull her upright.

"Wouldn't you like to know," I say, laughing.

**********************

Mac and I sit as close to the chickee hut as possible, trying to stay out of the intense afternoon sun. The stagnant heat is beyond oppressive and we are both dripping in sweat. I keep refilling the bottle with water for us to pour over us. Of course, it doesn't help much. The humidity is so high, the water doesn't evaporate easily and leave us cool. It just leaves us wet.

Buzzing insects rip through the sawgrass, on their way to wherever. Occasionally, one gets nabbed mid-flight by a reptilian predator and devoured whole. I watch overhead, hoping to see a commercial plane again, but nothing comes over. That would lead me to believe we might be south of Miami. South of Miami and stuck in the middle of hell.

"It is November. When does it get cool?" Mac asks, pulling her damp shirt away from her skin.

"I think there is one day in January when it gets cool. Then it is right back to being like this," I answer, sprinkling some water her way. She smiles as it hits her and then she playfully sprinkles some back. "When I was in Pensacola earlier this year, it was just as hot."

Nothing is said. It is still a touchy subject, my leaving. I'm usually greeted with silence even when I make the slightest reference to it. What I did made our partnership fragile and turned it into something that must be handled with care now.

"I had to go, Mac. I had to go try again," I say. There is no time like the present to broach this subject. What else are we going to do out here? We might as well do this when neither of us can escape the other.

She looks at me, her mouth hanging open at the way I'm going about this, but doesn't say anything right away. Eventually, she speaks, her voice low and even. "Everybody always has to go."

"I didn't leave you. I made a career decision. And in the end, it wasn't the wisest road to follow," I say, not breaking eye contact with her.

"Why? Because I got your promotion? Brumby got your office? Because life went on without you?" she asks, and I hear a slight waver in her voice. We are going to get to the heart of the matter now. It is inevitable.

"I expected life to go on without me, Mac. I am not envious of your promotion. Pissed that you didn't tell me about it, but not envious. I left that behind and it was my doing, not yours. And I don't care that Brumby got my office. What I do care about is that he got . . ." I start to say, but cut it off before I go somewhere I shouldn't.

"What? He got me? Is that what you think?" she says, rising from our shelter and walking away from me. But there is no where to go.

"Maybe he didn't get you, Mac. But he got your trust. I used to have that," I say, following her around to the other side of the platform.

"You traded that in to go play pilot with the boys," she says, and I grab her by her wrist and turn her toward me before we make a complete circle around this damn hut.

"I *am* a Naval aviator, Mac. I was doing what the United States government paid millions of dollars to train me to do. I was *not* playing with the boys," I say, sounding angrier than I ever intended to. She doesn't need me to yell at her now. She's had enough of that in her life. "What I was doing was important."

"And what you are doing now isn't?" she asks, pulling her wrist from my grasp. She doesn't back away. I would never expect her to. Not with me. She has got to trust me that much.

"What I do . . . what we do is very important. But, Mac, I had to try. It is all I ever wanted to do my whole life. If I didn't try, I would never know . . . "

She looks out over the water. Wherever there is no sawgrass, the glare off the water is incredible and she can't keep her eyes in one place for long.

"Would never know what?" she asks.

"I would never have known that this is where I now belong," I answer, and she turns to face me once more.

"I don't want you to think that I am so selfish that I didn't want you to follow your dreams. Your dreams are important. It's just that . . ." she starts to say, her eyes holding mine captive in their molten chocolate stare.

"They're not your dreams?" I ask, and she looks down. Looks out at the water. Looks at the sky. Looks anywhere but at me.

"No, they're not," she answers.

"Then I guess it's time I start making some new dreams."

************************

A far off noise wakes her from her sleep. The mid-afternoon heat became so stifling that there was nothing to do but drift off and escape it in dreams. We moved into the hut as not to end up with sunburns on top of everything else. The air was so stagnant in here that I finally broke open the shutters. I woke up an hour ago and began reading through the newspapers while the sun was still up, hoping to find anything about where we might be.

"What's that?" Mac asks, sitting up on her sleeping bag, listening carefully. Off in the distance, something makes a deep, lowing noise. "We are that close to cows?"

"Those are alligators," I say, flipping through the paper.

"That's comforting," she says with a smile.

"Feeling better?" I ask. Her eyes look less glassy and I'm hoping the Tylenol brought her temperature back to normal. I also hope the underlying reason for the temperature isn't an infection from her head wounds, but I can't imagine what else it could be.

"Actually, yes," she says, standing up and stretching. Her skin is glistening and my shirt is drenched with perspiration, causing it to stick to her form. It curves where she does and I don't think that shirt ever looked so good. She notices what I'm staring at and she pulls the dampened material away from her body.

"You look good in gold wings," I say, not moving my focus away from her.

"That is usually my line," she says, her hand going up to touch them on her chest. "When you watch me like that, I feel as if I'm wearing a high school boyfriend's varsity jacket. Of course, I hung around the wrong crowd for that."

"I'll let you wear my wings if we can go steady," I say, joking with her. "And you will have to go to the prom with me."

"Only if you wear your dress whites," she says, playing right along with me as she begins to dig through the canned goods stored in the bags. "What do you want for dinner? Canned peaches, fruit cocktail or creamed corn?"

"What a choice. I'll take whatever you don't want," I say, and she hands me a can of peaches, a spoon and the can opener. "Thanks."

"Find anything in there?" she asks, nodding at the newspaper as she sits down across from me. She opens a can of fruit cocktail and begins to eat it with a plastic spoon. She sets down the can after a few bites and grabs for a bottle of water, trying to defeat the dehydration from the heat.

"Not yet. Just that the water level is so high for this time of year because of the hurricane that came through last month. If it weren't for that, we might have been able to walk out of here, depending on where we are located," I say.

"What do you think they use this place for? Charlotte is apparently their decorator of choice," Mac says, picking some cobwebs from her hair. "It is relatively well stocked. Too stocked to just be a place they use to hold an occasional hostage. Not without planning it anyway."

"Here. Start reading."

Mac starts looking through a newspapers. "Some of these are dated from just three or four days ago. Before we ever flew in."

"I don't know what they would use shelter for besides hiding out from the rest of the world. Look at this," I say, showing her a large article in The Naples Daily News.

"Gliding the Glades: Crossing the River of Grass from Sunday, November 1, 1999. That was last week. How did they do it?" Mac asks, excited at our find.

"In canoes, actually. Canoes fitted with sails. There is even something of a map in here, but I would hate to have to navigate by it," I say, holding up the green and white artist's rendering of the swamp we are in.

"It might be all we have," she says, moving closer to read along with me.

"Before we go jumping off the platform and trekking through the wilderness, let me read this to you. 'If you try to go across the Everglades, the River of Grass will try to beat you. Only by going with the mile-per-day flow of water that over thousands of years has created long north-south islands will it be somewhat easy-going.' I think we need to devise a plan if this becomes our only option," I say, looking through the paper.

"What happened to the man who's jumped from helicopters and airplanes? The man who's risked life and limb to go behind enemy lines to obtain the truth?" she asks, elbowing me in the ribs.

"The enemy is one thing. These creatures are another matter entirely," I say, holding up a picture of a pygmy rattler and an alligator.

"They are more afraid of us than we are of them," she says. She finishes her food and looks at the can. "Harm . . . I know this shouldn't bother me but we are in really cramped quarters and all alone and . . .I really have to go. And I know it is easy for you . . . but, well . . ."

I look at her quizzically for a moment before it dawns on me what she's talking about. "Oh! Okay. I'll be around back, um, if you need anything."

"I'm sure I can manage."

**************

"Wake up!" someone shouts at me as they shake me violently. My exhaustion finally won out over the constant whirring of the night insects and I fell asleep again. I'm not ready to leave it quite yet. "Wake up, sir! You have got to get out of here."

"Crash?" I ask, trying to shield my eyes from the intense glare of the flashlight he's holding in my face. The distant crackle of gunfire makes me jump and Mac sits up quickly.

"What is going on, Crash?" Mac asks, and he diverts the light from me to her. She covers her eyes and shouts at him. "Put it down!"

"Get up. You two have got to get out of here. Everything has gone to hell and if you two want to live to see tomorrow I recommend that you get your asses moving! Now!" he snaps with the precision of a drill sergeant and we pull ourselves up quickly. He forces us out of the hut into the damp night air.

"How are we supposed to get out of here, Crash? We don't know where we are going," I say, barely able to make out the canoe tied to the platform. The night is dark, the moon completely obscured by clouds.

"There is a natural drift in the water toward the southwest. Don't go against the flow and, if you are lucky, you will eventually run into a series of rivers. There are navigational signs out there when you get that far," he says, and I turn around, trying to get my bearings.

"Where in the hell are we now?" I ask.

"You are in the middle of the Shark River Slough. There aren't any road signs out here, so I can't give you much for directions. Hopefully, someone will find you before Andy and Cappy know you are gone," Crash says, looking nervously into the night sky.

"What happened, Crash?" Mac asks as Crash grabs her hand and pulls her toward the ladder.

"The deal fell through. They got wind that the Navy was looking into it and everything went to hell. Cappy blames you and Cappy isn't very nice when he's pissed. They don't know I'm here, but they will be checking sooner or later. Their idea was to leave you two here to die," Crash says, holding on to the canoe as Mac steps in.

"We need a flashlight and water," I say, patting my pocket to makes sure that newspaper article is still there. I hid it away in case it did become our only guide. And now it appears it will be.

"Everything you need to survive for a few days is in the canoe. Water, a little food, some aspirin for the Colonel. Plus a change of clothes. I did my best with guessing your sizes, but you need to change as soon as you can. If they catch you in those uniforms, they'll kill you. You can at least play stupid and act like back country campers if you change," he says.

He takes my gun out of his waistband and goes to hand it back to me. We have a small standoff during the exchange, neither of us trusting the other completely. But he places it in my hand and steps back.

"You might need it," he says, his eyes holding mine.

"Who are you?" I ask, wanting to know what he is hiding. This kid knows something, but he's not telling.

"It doesn't matter," he says, and more distant shots ring through the night air.

"Crash, where's the plane? The plane you and I talked about before?" I ask, hoping for a faster way out of here than paddling through the razor sharp sawgrass.

"Don't ask for much, do you?" he asks with a snort. I hand the gun down to Mac and she secures it in a canvas bag.

"I'm just asking for a way to get out of this mess alive. Where's the plane?" I ask again.

"When you get closer to the end of the slough, there are some small riverways. It is tied up at a camp there. You're never going to find it, though, so don't make that your only plan," Crash says.

He holds on to the canoe as I step in and sit down. It is cramped with the two of us and the gear and it is going to be a long couple of days if the park rangers don't find us.

"We owe you one, Crash," I say as he turns us in the right direction and pushes us off into the night.

"You just keep that in mind, sir," he says. "Now, get the hell out of here."

***************

Mac changes quietly out of my shirt and into the one Crash packed for her, trying not to upset the canoe while doing so.

"Sink it?" she asks.

"Yeah . . . but take the . . . "

I hear it bubble as she shoves it down with a canoe paddle into the swamp water, sinking it in the boggy bottom.

"Don't worry, flyboy," she says, tapping me on the shoulder with something small and metal. I turn around as far as I can and she puts my wings in my hand.

"Thanks," I say, shoving them into my pocket for now.

I somehow managed to change into jeans without falling entirely into the muck. My near spill into the water did give Mac something to laugh about. I can't wait to see her try to change into jeans . . . except I can't. I shouldn't. What was I thinking?

"I'll try not to rock the boat while I do this," she says, and instantly, every sound is amplified out in this wilderness vacuum. I can hear her hand begin to pull down the zipper on her uniform pants. I swear every individual tooth on that zipper makes a new, unique noise as it separates from its partner. I hear the fabric glide over her skin as she tugs them down. I am tempted to look over my shoulder, but I don't. I just continue to try to paddle my way through the sawgrass. "Harm, you've seen me in less than this before. You don't have to be so . . . tense."

"Yes, ma'am," I say, trying to appear less tense on the outside even if on the inside, everything is tied in a big knot. She does rock the boat considerably and I try to steady it until she is done. I hear the rest of her clothes make a splash into the water and she sinks them, too.

"Okay. You can breath again," she says with a chuckle, her voice soft and low. "You ready start paddling again?"

"If that is what you want to call it. It's more like we are dragging ourselves through the sawgrass and muck right now," I say, looking over my shoulder at her. The moon sometimes shows itself between the thick clouds, but not for very long. This time is was just long enough for me to see the exhaustion written across her face.

Thunder claps in the distance and I see lightning spark and flare across the dark sky. I thought this was supposed to be the dry season here. I can't believe on top of everything else, it is going to rain on us. We are heading right into it, this storm rolling in off the gulf. We can't go back. We can only go forward.

"How fast can you bail?" Mac asks, and we both stop paddling.

"Bail out or bail water?" I ask, reaching around and grabbing the canvas bag. For the past several hours, we've gone without a flashlight, trying to avoid detection, but now would be a good time to start looking around for higher ground. Crash provided us with a Mag Lite. It could even be the same one they used to knock Mac out, which would make it evidence, but I can hardly bag it up now. It is all we have until the sun comes out.

I can barely make out an outcropping of trees in distance. It is the only difference in the horizon line. Trees must mean some sort of dry land. It must be a hammock, an island of trees in the middle of the glades, and it is our only hope if the skies let loose. Of course, every other creature in the swamp will be heading that way, too.

"Mac, see that over there?" I ask, shining the light in the direction of the trees.

"Barely," she answers.

"That's where we are headed to wait out the storm," I say, turning off the light and picking up my paddle again. The air is filled with the scent of ozone and impending rain. The breeze begins to pick up, fighting against our efforts to paddle to the hammock.

I can feel light, warm raindrops beginning to fall. It is more of a mist yet than the downpour I know is inevitable. The rain mixes with the sheen of sweat covering my body. It is hot even now, in the middle of the night with a storm blowing in. At least the warm breeze offers minimal comfort by keeping the insects away.

By the time we get the canoe as close to the hammock as we can, the rain is pouring down in fat, heavy drops. It pelts our eyes and there is no way to shield them and I look back at Mac. Water is running down her face and flowing off her chin. What was our only dry clothes is now soaked.

"We've got to get out!" I yell over the din of the storm, grabbing the flashlight and shining it on the murky water below. We are about 50 yards from what can be considered dry land and the path there is a twist of deep mud and thick vines that haven't been traversed . . . perhaps ever.

"We can't leave the canoe here, Harm. It will drift out into the sawgrass if it rains a lot," Mac says, as she takes the first plunge into the thick, black water. I watch her cringe when she first makes contact with the bottom. "Your turn."

I go over the side into the water. It is only about five feet high here, but the floor is an ancient bog that feels like it could pull us in and we'd never be found.

"We will have to carry it," I say, grabbing the front end of the canoe. She follows suit and we begin our slow hike up the hammock.

The way to the heart of what is our only dry land is overrun with thorny, snagging vines that grab at us and rip our clothes. We can't maneuver well with the canoe, but at least it shields us from the heavy, pelting rain.

"What's that over there?" Mac asks, calling over the noisy rain that splatters all around us.

"I don't know. Let's check it out," I call back, trying to make out the structure through the rain. The vegetation camouflages it well, but it is a hut of some sort. Perhaps left behind by hunters or drug runners or whatever. Who the hell cares now. It has a roof. Or the best roof we are going to find out here.

Whatever doors this hut might have had are long gone and the inside is dark and musty. The rain leaks through the thatched roof in places, soaking the plank floor below. Some dragged lumber all the way out here for this? From the looks of it, it was a long time ago.

"Someone's idea of a hunting cabin?" Mac asks, holding up some kind of metal trap I've never seen before.

"Must be. He must have really hated the 'missus' if he preferred to stay here," I say, shining the light around the small room. I throw the canvas bag to one of the few dry spots.

"Who says it was a he?" Mac asks, running her hands over a makeshift table. It wobbles a little from the pressure of her touch and she pulls her hand away. She moves to a shadowy corner, and laughs. "Then again, it was probably a he and a she . . . maybe."

I shine the light on some old, beat up mattress in the corner, bare except for a pile of worn blankets. The ancient mattress ticking indicates that it has indeed been . . . used.

"You can sleep there," I say, shining the light at Mac.

Her face is covered in mud now, as are her clothes. We look like we just stormed a beach on some foreign shore. Maybe we can collect some water in the canoe and use it to clean up. The canoe isn't doing us much good otherwise right now. Or else we are going to have to wash off in the rain.

"And where are you going to sleep?" she asks.

"Anywhere but there," I answer, casting the light to other corners. Cobwebs are as prevalent here as they were at the last hut we were in, but more of these webs are inhabited due to the lack of a human presence.

"You'll get tired yet. This will be looking pretty good," she says, picking up the blankets and shaking any creatures out. Something goes scurrying across the floor and we both try to follow its path but lose it, whatever it might be. She also checks all around the mattress for any other living thing that might take offense to her resting there.

The rain still comes down, and the tapping sound it makes on the thatched roof, under different circumstances, would be quite soothing. I am exhausted, but not to such a degree to let it lull me to sleep just yet. Mac somehow manages to cover the rundown mattress with the blankets in such a way that it almost looks like a place to sleep. She sits down on it, and lets out a long sigh.

"Comfortable?" I ask, my mind working over the chances of someone finding us here. Slim to none would be my guess. And if the rain doesn't let up, we are going to be in deep water soon enough.

"Sit down. Nothing here will bite," she says, patting a spot next to her. I do sit and the two of us must make quite a picture. Covered with mud, hair still dripping wet and clothes shredded by the vegetation, no one would ever guess what we really are.

I set the flashlight down between us, letting it glow toward the ceiling and look at her.

"These impromptu camping trips of ours must end," I say, brushing a strand of mud encrusted hair from her eyes.

"You just like to see me at my best," she says, her fingers going through her own hair before touching her filthy shirt.

"You don't look that bad. You kind of look like a Marine," I say, wiping a smudge of dirt off from under her eye with the edge of my thumb.

"What's your excuse?" she asks, reciprocating the gesture. There is no way all this mud is going anywhere without water and lots of it.

"I could go back out in the rain and rinse off . . . but my clothes will still be dirty. And wet. I don't think there is anything to wear here," I say, looking around. The person who built this place didn't leave that much behind.

"Just the blankets," Mac says, looking down at the ugly plaid blanket we are sitting on.

"Yes. Just the blankets."

*******************

I stand outside on a makeshift porch, which is actually just a few two by fours nailed together creating a walkway out into the trees, and try to rinse the mud off. The rain pours off the corner of the roof, creating a shower, and it is quite effective considering where we are at. Then again, this could be The Plaza Hotel of the Shark River Slough and we just don't know it.

The gray morning sky is still dumping everything it's got down on us, and it doesn't look like it is going to stop anytime soon. We have enough food for a few days, but I have no idea how far away from the edge of the Everglades we are. Or even if anyone is looking for us out here.

My clothes are lined up on the rotting wood that makes up the railing, the mud washed out only by the sheer force of the rain coming down. And in this humid climate, they should be dry in about . . . two weeks. Especially if the sun doesn't come out soon. So I'm going to be left wearing a wet pair of boxers and a plaid blanket half eaten by something.

I watch as the mud off my body spirals down the planks until it joins even more mud. The constant rain forms deep puddles that seem to go nowhere. Where would they go? Everything is still saturated from that recent hurricane. Soon, we will be swamped even though this 'cabin' is built up on stilts.

Stepping out of the rain, I slip my wet boxers back on and flinch as they make contact with my body. They are now extremely cool and uncomfortable. With the blanket wrapped around my shoulders, I enter the cabin again to find Mac sleeping soundly on the mattress.

She rinsed off in the rain before I did, using a blanket to wrap up in afterwards. The same blanket that is slipping off of her now as she lies there in peaceful slumber. I sit on the edge of the bed and cover her up again, tucking the blanket around her carefully.

"Hmm?" she mumbles, rolling over onto her back, but not quite able to keep her eyes open.

"I was just tucking you in, Colonel," I say, scooting across the mattress and leaning against the wall. She doesn't look nearly as worn down now that the mud has been washed from her hair and face, but we are both tired. After a night of dragging a canoe through the sawgrass, we should be.

"How was your shower?" she asks, her eyes opening a little to look at me.

"As far as bathing in rainwater goes, it was fine. That was a good idea," I say. Mac smiles a little, then rolls to face me.

"I enjoy a good mud bath as much as the next woman, but that was a bit too much," she says. Now her eyes are completely open, as she watches me settle in against the wall. "You think we are going to make it out of here unscathed?"

"Giving up after one day?" I ask, surprised at her question. She is not one to quit, especially so soon. "I'm sure we will be found, Mac. Or we will get to edge of this swamp somehow. I wouldn't worry about that, yet."

"I guess what I meant by my question . . . about making it out of here unscathed . . . I didn't word it right," she says. Slowly, she reaches out from under her blanket and puts her hand on my thigh, leaving it there. She is warm, and a rush moves through me suddenly, her warmth spreading everywhere throughout my body. "Are we going to leave this swamp the same people as we were when we came in?"

I focus on her, and thoughts of our discussion from yesterday fill my head. New dreams. For both of us. I lost a big part of my life this year. An entire dream was fulfilled and lost at the same time. I tried. It didn't work out.

If I try this . . . if we try this, will it work out? Can it?

"Mac . . ." I say, resting my hand on hers, the feel of her warm fingers not only being burned into my flesh but into my memory. She closes her eyes again, knowing well where this conversation is headed.

"I know all the reasons why it would be wrong. But the reasons it would be right . . ." she starts to say, a gentle but deep sigh escaping her throat.

"The reasons it would be 'right' sound pretty damn good right now," I say, my fingers tracing around hers, touching what I can. "But what about when we get out of here and back to work? What then?"

"The problems are endless," she says, a look of utter disappointment slowly crossing her face before it is replaced with acceptance. Disappointment that this can't be as easy as we would like it to be. Acceptance over the fact that if it doesn't happen now, it may never happen. "The problems are endless and the solutions are few."

"We could do this here and now, but . . . Mac . . ." I say, as her hand moves across my leg, further up and closer to my rain soaked boxers.

"We could do this here and now and worry about the rest later, when . . . if we get out of here," she says, her touch intoxicating. I want more. So much more. Damn. We *can* deal with it all later.

Can't we?

Without saying a word or announcing my intent, I lie down next to her and pull her close, both of our blankets slipping from our bodies as we make contact. Every inch of her is warm to the touch, and I do want this. I want her.

Yes, we can worry about all the problems tomorrow. I just sounds too simple.

"Are you sure?" I ask, watching a myriad of emotions pass across her face. Is she sure? Am I sure? There are some places from where you can never return, and I know this is one of them. So much has happened between us in the last few months, some of it unpleasant. I don't want to break the tenuous threads of our relationship now by pushing it prematurely to a new level.

"I'm sure," she says, her hands moving in between us and to my chest. She rests one of them over my heart and I am sure she can feel it beating as fast as hummingbird wings in flight.

Our mouths meet and this time I am kissing Mac, not some illusion my mind created to help me say good-bye. A barely audible moan of sweet pleasure escapes her throat as her mouth opens under mine.

"Just as long as you are sure," I say, pulling away briefly from her kiss.

"Harm, shut up," she says, and pulls me in for more. My fingers twist through her hair, now so soft from the rainwater. She is scented of the rain and of the outside air. Fresh. Alive. Our mouths hunger for more, for something we convinced ourselves we could never have. Years of envy over others and envy over it never being the right time are washing away here, lost somewhere in the Everglades under the pouring rain.

Our mouths draw apart again, and we just watch each other. Her brown eyes are wild with arousal and I'm sure mine mirror back the same in blue-green. I look down, to the blankets covering us, and she senses my thoughts. She pulls the blanket wrapping her body away, exposing herself to me completely. I can't help but stare. And then I can't help but to touch her.

Starting at her cheeks, I move down, brushing a line past her lips and to her neck. Then down, touching her clavicle and sweeping through the hollow spot above it. It must tickle because she trembles a little and smiles. Then I tease more, circling around her breasts but not touching her nipples just yet. They are hard already, cinnamon colored peaks of flesh, and I want to swirl my tongue around each one. But not yet. There's still more to touch.

Traveling down between her breasts, I circle her belly button. A little lower, down her stomach, firm from all hours of working out. How many hours does she spend doing that because she has nothing else to do? Then again, how many hours do I spend running? Too many.

I move down, past the neatly manicured curls that marks the beginning of her sex, and under my touch, she parts her tights slightly. I tease once again, just brushing over her clit before moving on, back to the smooth skin on her thighs. She moans as my fingers betray what she really wants, but I don't care. I want to feel all of her. Make love to her with my hands before I make love to her with the rest of me.

She rolls over, allowing me to view her backside, and it is just as perfect as the front. I move my hands over her, then down the back of her thighs, stopping behind her knees. Again, she laughs softly when I touch her there. Maybe I could learn everywhere she is ticklish in just one hour.

Done with my hands, now I want to taste her. My tongue follows the path of my fingers, only in reverse. She rolls over and parts her legs again, and I this time I give her what she wanted from my fingers just minutes ago.

Mac squirms as my tongue makes contact with that little bundle of nerves and I hear her nails dig into the blankets and mattress. She needs something to hold on to. I do to, I think, because this can't be real.

She has a leg thrown over my shoulder, pulling me closer. She is so warm and wet as I work her into a heightened state of arousal with my tongue. She moans, soft and low, and it resonates through her entire being and rumbles to her very core.

As she grinds slowly into my face, I try to give her everything she wants. And I discover what I want to give her most is a sense of security. I want her to know I would never abandon her. Especially not after this.

Moving away from me, she kneels and pulls me toward her. I crawl up the bed until we are both on our knees facing each other. She looks down at my erection jutting out toward her, and she licks her lips, like a cat looking at a bird through a pane of glass. Only, there is nothing between us.

Her palm brushes down my chest, smoothly moving lower until she has my cock in her hand. She swirls her thumb around the tip, gripping the shaft firmly. All I can do is watch her hand move up and down on me, hardly able to believe we have come to this. We seem to be suspended in time, the sound of our breathing all there is. It fills this room and hangs over us.

"Does that feel good?" she asks, her voice silky smooth and soft.

"Oh, yeah," I say, finding myself bucking up into her hand, wanting more. She leans forward and we are locked in a kiss again. Clumsier than the first. More desperate. My hands hold Mac's waist, steadying her as she continues to stroke my cock.

"You want more?" she asks after pulling away.

"Only if you do," I respond, not wanting her to feel obligated at any point.

She releases my cock from her fingers and pushes me backwards onto the mattress. "Yeah. I want more."

Mac moves up the length of my body until she is positioned over me, settling down on my cock but not letting me slide in right in. For just a moment, logical thought takes over, clearing my mind from this haze of arousal she's put me in.

"Mac, is it okay? I mean, we are out here with no protection and . . ." she silences me with a finger over my lips.

"It's okay. Depo Provera is a marvelous thing for girls who get stuck out in swamps," she says, smiling at me from above.

"Always prepared?" I ask, curious as to why she chose that particular method. It seems so . . . constant. The choice of someone who was in a serious relationship.

"I'm not a boy scout, Harm. I'm a Marine. A busy one at that. I sometimes forget to take things. This is easier . . ."

"Easier for a 'girl' who gets stuck in swamps . . . how often?" I ask, knowing full well I should stop this line of questioning before I hear something I don't want to.

"I haven't been stuck in a swamp for a while," she says, nudging closer to me, so close I can almost imagine how it is going to feel to slide into her body. Warm. Wet. Wonderful.

"I'm glad you're stuck with me," I say, and she finally lets me slip into her body, sinking all the way down my length easily. She settles there, and we both take a moment to soak up all the new sensations coursing through our bodies.

I am inside of Mac. Mac, who I work with. Mac, who is now starting to rise up and sink down on my cock. Mac, who is making the room spin and I can't stop it.

I thrust up into her and our eyes lock. Hers are wide with arousal, and they glow with a fiery intensity. I can feel a layer of sweat form across my body and the whole cabin is now filled with the unmistakable scent of sex. Hot and sweaty sex.

Her breasts bounce with our activity and I touch them, feeling their weight in my hands. She leans forward, putting a hand on each side of my head. I move one of my hands down to her clit, and she pushes against my fingers. She moves faster, bouncing upon me with a friction that pushes me so close to the edge.

Soon, too soon, she is quaking around my body, her orgasm finally causing her to close her eyes. She rides it out, letting it hit her whole body and take her places I can only imagine right now. I'll join her in just a moment.

She opens her eyes and looks at me again, a smile crossing her face.

"Good?" I ask, not wanting to sound smug but failing miserably.

"It was okay," she says, still trying to catch her breath.

"Just okay?" I ask, my voice sounding surprised. I usually don't get too many complaints.

"I'll reserve judgment until after the second time," she says, still smiling that beautiful smile.

"You've got a deal," I say, thrusting back up into her body again. She counter thrusts with everything she's got, her athletic form moving easily, taking me in as far as I can go. It isn't long before I feel myself falling over the edge, finding such sweet release. My body shudders and I can't bring myself back to the here and now for over few moments.

Mac falls forward on to me, and I slip from her wet body. I maneuver her so she's tucked under my arm with her arm draped over my chest. It might be daytime, but after this, we are both more exhausted then we were before.

My tired mind begins to spin with the realities of what just transpired here. Of how we are going to deal with it when we get back to work. It isn't something that can be hammered out easily. I didn't really think it would be. No, I'm not regretting what we just did. Just confused on how it is going to fit into the world beyond this swamp.

"Hey, flyboy?" she asks, checking to see if I'm still awake. She sounds incredibly sleepy herself.

"Hmm?" I mumble, wondering if she's having regrets now.

"It was good."

**************

Something -- a branch, maybe -- cracks loudly outside the back door, waking me from my sleep. Mac stirs next to me and opens her eyes, and I motion for her to keep quiet. It could be anything out there. A branch falling down. An animal moving across the hammock floor.

Or Andy.

I sit up, hardly prepared to take on anything in my present state of undress. All I have is a blanket half covering me, the rest of my clothes still hanging out to dry.

"What now?" Mac whispers, listening carefully for any more sounds. There are none. Even though I'm on edge, I lie back down next to her.

"Now we wait and see if we are going to get attacked by a ten foot man-eating alligator," I whisper back.

We lie face to face, and my mind begins to recollect in stunning clarity exactly what transpired just a few hours ago. I made love to Sarah MacKenzie. After all these years and all this time, it was so easy to let all the walls built between us crumble. That is because this was the right time.

She places a hand on my face and I smile at her warmth. Her face goes through a myriad of expressions and emotions in a matter of seconds before ending up on one of genuine concern.

"It will be okay," I say, pulling her into my arms. She has every right to be concerned. The ramifications of our actions . . . of this affair . . . are many. Everything changed in a few minutes. Career aspirations. Life. Dreams.

"It would be so much easier if this . . ." she starts to say, her voice trailing off.

"Meant nothing? Mac, I does mean something. I'd be disappointed if you thought it meant nothing," I say to her, kissing her gently on top of her head. Her hair is so soft from the rainwater. The scent of sex has yet to dissipate in the small room, and it is powerful. It is a reminder of the two of us joined. A reminder of how much we enjoyed each other.

Mac remains silent, wrapped up in my arms, her breathing slow and even. Her legs are entwined in mine and it is amazing how comfortable we are with one another. More comfortable than I ever was with Jordan. I loved her, but it wasn't *this.*

"Hungry?" Mac asks, pulling away from me a little after my stomach growls.

"Just for you," I say, and that wins me a laugh.

"That's sweet. But how about some food?" she asks, getting up off the mattress and turning on the flashlight. She doesn't bother to cover herself and I find myself staring at her as she digs through the canvas bag Crash packed for us. "We have . . . peanut butter crackers. A bag of barbecue flavored Fritos . . ."

"You can have those," I say, watching her pull out the rest of our meager supplies from the bag, lining them up on the makeshift table.

"We have a can of Spam," she says, holding up the blue container for me to see.

"I say we save that for dinner. We can get out some candles, put on a little music, have some Spam. Mac, MREs are better than this," I say, waiting for anything edible to come out of the bag.

"And we have Power Bars," she says, tossing me a box of them. "There you go. Keep your energy up."

"For later?" I say with a smile, teasing her.

"Yeah. For later when we canoe our way out of here," she says, ripping open a bag of potato chips and crunching noisily on one.

"Those are going to kill you faster than you think," I say, nodding at her. She shakes the bag and stands in front of me without a stitch of clothing on. I find it hard to believe she can eat the junk she sometimes does and stay so fit.

"Well, if I die now, at least I will die satisfied," she says, her voice low and sultry.

"Uh huh," I say, fighting off the combination of embarrassment and arousal traveling through my body. She comes back to the bed, bringing her potato chips with her, and sits cross legged next to me.

"Do you think it will ever stop raining?" she asks, looking up at the ceiling and listening to the continual pattering. It has slowed down considerably, but is still coming down harder than I would like to go out canoeing in. Add to that the crashing thunder and flashing lightning, it is probably better to stay here.

"If it were summer, I'd say this could go on for days, but this late in autumn, it should end soon and we can get on our way," I say, and she looks slightly disappointed.

"And then where do we go? Did you have any thoughts about that while you were out taking a shower?" she asks, offering me a potato chip. I decline.

"All we can do is keep heading west. If nothing else, eventually, we'll hit the Gulf of Mexico," I say, tossing the Power Bar wrapper to the side. I get up and go in search of that newspaper article. Mac's eyes follow me around the room, watching me in the semi-illumination with the same intensity that I watched her. "I would like to think they are searching for us already, but since they don't know where to look, they just haven't found us yet."

She smiles. A big, beaming smile. "You want to know something?" Mac asks.

"What?" I ask back, looking at her over the newspaper.

"It is going to be so hard to concentrate in court from now on. You'll be up there running your mouth off and I'll be picturing you just like this," she says, still grinning. I put the newspaper down, turn to her, with my hands on my hips.

"Running my mouth off?" I ask. "I do not run my mouth off. I use my oratory skills to preserve the sanctity of the law of the sea . . ."

"And if that doesn't work, you just cast that smile at the jury and hope that gets you what you want . . ."

"It worked with you, didn't it?" I ask, casting *that* smile her way. I walk back to where she is sitting, leaving her just below eye level to various parts of my anatomy. Now she's having a hard time looking up at me and I think that is cute. Leave her with that image for the next time we face each other in court.

"It worked once. Maybe it won't work again," she says, moving back and then looking at me square in the eyes. The two of us stay like that, just watching one another. Holding each other's stare.

"I hope it works again," I say. She clears her throat and looks away. I sit next to her again, and put my arm around her shoulders, taking her hand in mine. "It isn't going to be easy going back, is it?"

"No, it isn't."

We sit like that, together, hand in hand, both contemplating how this is going to work out. I want it to. With everything that hasn't gone right in the past year, this would be nice.

She moves around and tilts my head toward hers, kissing me. Her hands stay on my face, as she pulls away, our eyes speaking everything we cannot put to words just yet.

I'm about ready to kiss her again when something crashes through the front door. Mac and I both jump away from one another, but are surrounded by men in muddy BDUs before we can even get wrapped up in the blankets. They may be dressed in uniforms, but they are most certainly not soldiers. Except for one. He would not have any idea who we are. I only know him from the picture we were given when we were sent out to find him. He isn't even a soldier. He's a sailor.

Petty Officer David Jacobs.

He steps forward out of the group and laughs. "And what do we have here? A couple of tourists screwing around in Kurt's cabin?"

He looks Mac up and down before grabbing a blanket and covering her. He doesn't offer me anything. No matter what we say at this point, we have been severely compromised. Tell him we are JAG lawyers looking for him and he'll just use what he saw against us. Don't tell him, and we will never find out what he did with those missing armaments.

Mac looks at me and gives her head a quick shake 'no' before she speaks. "We are just a couple of backcountry campers who got lost and and were trying to get out of the rain. If you let us get our stuff, we'll get out of here . . ."

"I don't think so. Hanscomb, get them dressed. They are coming with us."

****************

"Forget their canoe. They will never be able to keep up in that thing," Jacobs says, knocking down the canoe that brought us this far. It was leaning against the cabin, and he walks away from it quickly, the rest of us following. "We will just have to double up. He can go with you, Schaller, and she will come with me. At least then I'll have someone to bail out the water."

I'm just thankful they let us put clothes on before dragging us out of the cabin and into the drizzle. Jacobs even took the rain poncho off one of his associate's back and gave it to Mac. Another man packed our bag up and threw it at me to carry. At least if we get away, we won't starve.

Jacobs is a wiry kid who can't be any older than twenty-five. His dark brown hair is slickened with rain now, and he keeps shaking his head to get rid of the excess water. He has on a pair of wire framed glasses that also keep getting wet, and the only annoyance he shows is when he finally has to take them off to wipe the rain specks off. He tries to look through the spots until he can't take it anymore. And when he doesn't have them on, I can tell he can't see a damn thing.

On the other side of the hammock, in the opposite direction from where we landed during the night, Jacobs and his men have a series of canoes tied up to a small dock. All of their canoes are equipped with makeshift sails to help them move across the sawgrass. The sails are waterlogged now, hanging like wet rags down from their thin masts and the canoes clank against each other, fighting their ropes.

"We aren't ever going to get anywhere unless the wind picks up," the man identified as Hanscomb says, walking down the dock which is nothing more than a foot wide platform jutting out into the glades. He leans over one of the canoes, feeling the sailcloth, and shakes his head.

Jacobs follows him, pushing Mac ahead of him. "The wind will be picking up soon. But so will the rain. We better paddle out of here before we get swamped and we are all stuck in Kurt's cabin like our friends here. What's your name, sweetheart?"

Mac shoots him an ice cold glare, but he doesn't seem to care. He's only dragging us along to protect his interests. It has nothing to do with us or our lives.

"She has a name, doesn't she? Or did you just pick her up on the way here and you don't even know it?" Jacobs asks me, as he helps Mac settle into the canoe.

"Her name is Sarah," I say, choosing her given name instead of Mac but not sure why. He doesn't need to know everything about her. "She's Sarah and I'm Harm."

"Whatever," Jacobs says, sneering at me before he gets into his own canoe with ease. "Does 'Sarah' know how to paddle?"

"I know how to do a lot of things," Mac says, her icy voice matching her glare.

"I'm sure you do if that look on pretty boy's face is any indicator. But do you know how to paddle?" he asks again. Mac maintains her cool composure, managing to even bring her stare under control.

"I can paddle," she finally answers.

"Good," Jacobs says, tossing her a paddle over his shoulder.

The man I assume is Schaller pushes me to another canoe and holds it while I step in and get settled. He then tosses my bag at me and I have to cram it in with the rest of the stuff already under my legs. My jeans are stiff from the mud again and it is hard to fold myself up into the half a foot of space I have. The sail takes up even more room and I have no idea how they adjust it to the changing wind.

"Well, Sarah and Harm, you are now going to get to see the Everglades the right way. Not in that half-assed way you two were traveling through it," Jacobs says, pushing his canoe away from the small dock.

"You were following us?" I ask, helping Schaller as we disembark and push our way out into deeper water.

"We could see where you hacked your way up to the cabin. That is how we found you. What in the hell kind of map were you two following? Don't you know you could get lost out here?" Jacobs asks. Mac looks back at me briefly, but neither of us answer him.

The entire group is now paddling behind Jacobs like a row of ducklings following their mother. How in the hell did this kid acquire so much control? The weapons? From what I could gather, he sold those to Andy.

I look up at Mac, paddling just as hard as any of the men. This investigation is nothing like I expected. Once again, she looks back at me, a reassuring smile crossing her face before she turns away.

Yeah, nothing like I expected.

We can now forget about keeping this secret until we figure out what to do. If we are fortunate to get out of this swamp alive and apprehend all the people who appear to be involved, Jacobs is never going to keep his mouth shut.

The Admiral is going to shit. Not only did we get abducted rather easily, we got lost in the Everglades only to be found by the suspect we were looking for while we were in a rather compromising position.

I wonder what civilian law is really like?

Jacobs leads us to what looks like a trail through the sawgrass, and the wind begins to pick up just a little, billowing the wet sails out and pushing us forward.

"These are the trails created by the natives back during the Seminole wars," he shouts over the flapping sails and the wind whistling through  
The last traces of sunlight streaming though the small, dusty windows of the trailer vanish quickly. Before it gets too dark, someone flips on a generator outside the trailer. It hums to life, but not without sputtering a few times. With one or two well placed kicks, it remains steady, and a dim light begins to burn overhead. It isn't much, but at least we won't be tripping over each other in the dark.

"I'm going to take a shower. Think there is any chance the water is heated?" Mac asks, sitting up next to me. I run a finger down her arm, and she shivers ever so slightly under my touch.

"I doubt it . . . but I can think of ways to keep warm," I say. Once, the remark would have been met with a quick smile and a snappy comeback from her. But *this* once, she leans over and kisses me. A sudden, sweet warmth flows through me, circling around my brain before moving lower. I pull her down to the space she just occupied, needing her near.

Hands and fingers and mouths all battle to co-exist on the same field, tracing over planes and curves that seem familiar yet are still so new. She tastes of the salty perspiration clinging to her body. My mind reels in pleasure as she moans ever so softly from my touch, the sound barely escaping the back of her throat. I place slow, soft kisses down her jawline and across her neck while her hands find mine, fingers wrapping around each other's.

We have created this fire between us that can't be put out easily now. I pull away from her and look into her eyes. One of her hands unravels from mine and she touches my face. I'm in desperate need of a shave, and her palm brushes across the stubble before coming to a rest on my cheek.

All this time. She was right there in front of me all this time . . . why not before? Yeah. I know. Careers. Goals. Ambitions. Regulations. But right now, who the hell cares about any of those things?

I just wonder if we will both feel that way when we get out of this mess.

"I really need to shower," Mac says, sitting up, her raspy voice betraying exactly how aroused she is.

"Okay," I say, lying back on the bed, my hands behind my head. She bites her bottom lip for a second and looks at me thoughtfully. I want to ask her what she is thinking about but am somewhat afraid of the answer. Perhaps our fears are better left unspoken just yet.

"I won't be long," she says, turning away from me.

Before Mac can even get off the bed, someone bangs on the door with two swift knocks before swinging it open. We both stand up, not knowing what to expect. The man who was staring at us earlier steps in and looks me over. His eyes lock on to mine for a moment before he looks at Mac.

In his arms, he's carrying a variety of BDUs and a small travel bag. He also has a selection of boots hanging over his shoulder and he sets them down on the small counter top that makes up the kitchen.

"We had to guess what size you wear," he says, patting the pile of camouflage material before setting it down by the boots. He looks down at my feet and then back up to my eyes. "And boots. It's funny how no one notices anybody's shoes, isn't it . . . sir?"

Mac and I have both been stuck in our dress shoes this whole time. Crash didn't pack us any shoes and I assumed that no one would notice these now that they are encrusted in muck, but someone did.

"Sir?" I ask back, wondering how much he might know or have guessed simply by being more observant than the others.

"I know you, Lt. Rabb. You ruined my career back in '95. And it is my guess you are after Jacobs now. Considering you are the one locked up and he's out free, you aren't doing a very good job. Just like the crappy job you did defending me," he says, as I dig into the recesses of my mind to match a name to this face before me.

Mac looks at me, an expression of puzzlement dancing across her face.

"It's *Commander* Rabb and I must admit I don't remember you as well as you remember me," I say. Considering I apparently lost his case, I should remember him. It doesn't happen that often . . .

"Marcus Brennen. Back then I was Seaman Marcus Brennan. You said I had nothing to worry about, that you would get the charges dropped. But it never happened. So now you are a Commander and I'm nothing," he says. Mac and I are trapped with him blocking the exit. I hope he isn't too mad about this whole thing.

"I'm sorry," is all I can think to say.

"I'm sure you are," he says, his voice cold enough to chill this hot trailer down.

"Marcus, do you know what's going on around here? What are Jacobs and Elworth's plans for overnight?" Mac asks. Finally, he breaks his stare on me and turns it to Mac.

"Why should I tell you?" he asks, his eyes narrowing into slits.

"Because you are all going to be in trouble before this is over. You could be the one to end it," Mac says. He laughs heartily at her statement.

"This is all I got in my life, ma'am. But I tell you what - you figure out how to make the old man get rid of Jacobs and I'll help you out of this."

********************

"Now what?" Mac asks as soon as Marcus Brennen leaves, locking the trailer door behind him. She sits down on the edge of the bed, rubbing the back of her neck. We are both worn out, having slept for only three hours this morning. It has been one hell of a long day and tomorrow doesn't promise to be any better.

"We figure out how to get out of here. If getting Elsworth to realize what Jacobs is up to is what it takes to get help in escaping, then that is what we will do. Maybe Elsworth will even let us take Jacobs," I say, knowing that possibilty is slim. It is quiet outside the trailer now, the only sound coming from the generator buzzing away loudly, chasing away the dark. I'm sure someone is watching the trailer, no matter what the others are doing.

This place is devoid of personal items. Nothing hangs on the walls and the owner has no pictures anywhere. The only personal items she owns are shoved into a row of small drawers.

I start to dig through Angie's belongings, trying to figure out who she is, what her role is in all of this and why she's not here. So far, all I have found is a drawer full of BDUs just like all the men. I throw a set at Mac, hoping they fit.

"Lovely," she says, catching the cammies and putting them next to her.

"Would you prefer this?" I ask, holding up the only other style of clothes Angie has. She has a healthy amount of short, strappy dresses. Most of them are red or black and are made of as little material as possible. This one is not only red, but it is also sheer from top to bottom.

"I'm sure *you* would prefer that. But I'll stick with this," Mac says, patting the pile of green next to her.

"Suit yourself," I say, folding the dress back up and moving on to the next drawer. The next one is filled with papers and must be her obligatory junk drawer. None of the papers tell me anything. No receipts or credit card invoices are in here.

"I don't think Elsworth will just let us walk out of here with Jacobs. He would have to realize that we would have the ATF and FBI storming this place immediately. That just isn't going to happen," Mac says with a heavy sigh. Her hands run across her dirty jeans, brushing the caked on mud to the floor. She toes off her muddy shoes and stares at her feet. They are muddy and covered in blisters. I wouldn't suggest going into the Everglades in dress shoes to anyone.

"I think the two of us getting out of here alive is our first priority right now. Jacobs and those weapons are our second. We now know where he is . . . sort of. If we can get to help, people far more prepared can come in here and secure the compound. But if we can't get out, we will have to use Jacobs," I say, pulling a handful of matchbooks out of the drawer. They are all from a place called The Deluge Club located in Miami Beach. Judging from the deco design, probably South Beach.

"What did you find?" Mac asks. She rises off the bed and removes her dirty shirt.

"Um . . . I, uh . . ." I start, diverting my eyes and not knowing why. It is all so unfamiliar yet. My mind keeps telling me this is only Mac, but she's no longer *only* Mac. I finally look up at her and when I'm sure I can speak again, I show her the matchbooks. "Looks like Angie is a party girl."

"The Deluge Club. Well, that would explain the dresses. Maybe she works there. Perhaps that is why she has only these matchbooks, but that is way over on the other side of the state. Speaking of deluge . . . I'm going to take a shower now," she says, placing her hand on my shoulder before moving it slowly down my arm. Just her touch sends shivers through me now, as if my body has been filled with glimmering cold snowflakes. I drop the matchbooks and she takes my hand in hers.

"Go take your shower," I say, looking at our hands joined, with fingers entwined. She can have my hand and my heart and just about anything right now.

"You could come with," she says, her voice low and filled with longing. "It will be a tight fit, but that will just make it cozy."

"Okay," I manage to squeak out, and she pulls me in her direction.

Releasing my hand, she tugs my shirt out of my jeans and I yank it over my head. I toss it in the general direction of behind me and I watch as Mac uses a finger to trace a line from my chest down my abs to the waistband of my jeans. She works the button loose and the feel of her hand as she glides the zipper down makes my heart beat so hard she must be able to feel it. Her hand snakes into my boxers, stroking the shaft of my cock.

I fumble with her jeans, struggling to retain some sense of composure. It isn't working. Not with her doing that to me.

"Mac, just a second," I say, and she pulls her hand away.

Kicking off my shoes, I drop my trousers and boxers, sending them off with my t-shirt. Mac wriggles out of her jeans, leaving them in a puddle of mud-encrusted denim on the floor. Before she can even take one step toward the shower, I have her wrapped in my arms, my erection pressed against the soft skin of her belly. Her arms go around me, her head resting on my chest and now I know she must be able to feel my heart pounding against my rib cage. This is just so damn right that, here and now, I can't even begin to think of all the things that make it wrong.

I move us toward the head, which is nothing more than a closet-size room with a shower head, what is supposed to be a toilet and a small square of formica containing a tiny sink. She's right. It is cozy. The slow spray of water is air temperature, so it is fortunate we are in Florida in November and not South Dakota.

Not only that, but the only light comes from some sort of battery operated lantern sitting by the sink. I can just make out Mac's features in the darkness. On her face, there is a smile bright enough to light up this whole place.

"You want me to wash your back?" Mac asks, lathering up a tiny bar of Irish Spring soap.

"If I could only turn around, that would be great. This is kind of like being in a small closet with a very large wet dog shaking himself off," I say, looking up at the shower head. There is hardly any pressure behind it and I'm afraid it will just stop unexpectedly.

"Then I guess I get to wash your front," she says, and before I can say anything, her soapy hands glide across my chest, leaving behind a trail of bubbles. I take the soap and begin to lather up my hands, but when her hand brushes across my cock, I drop it and it disappears somewhere into a dark corner.

Words are unnecessary at this point as our hands do all the talking, telling a story of how much we enjoy each other. The only sound in this room is the trickling of water and the soft, breathy moan that escapes from the back of Mac's throat as I hone in on her soap-slippery breasts. Her nipples become hardened peaks under my touch, topping off breast that are perfect. She is perfect.

"What are you doing?" I ask, as she sinks down to her knees on the wet floor.

"Making sure you clean between your toes," she says, with more than a tinge of sarcasm in her voice. "What do you think I'm doing down here?"

With that, I feel her tongue circle the tip of my penis before taking me all the way into her mouth. She moves her mouth up and down my shaft, her lips wrapped around me tight, her tongue darting everywhere.

"Well, whatever it is, you can continue doing it . . . Colonel," I say and I feel her chuckle. She releases me from her mouth and looks up at me.

"I bet you get a real kick out of a superior officer giving you a blow job?" she asks. Her tongue darts out of her mouth, focusing on me again. She pulls me into her mouth again as her hands slip up between my legs to cup my balls. The sensation of the water and her mouth and her hands is almost more than I can take.

"Not really. Let's just say I'm saluting you," I say, and for that I get to feel her teeth graze across my shaft. "Besides, who says you are the first superior officer who's done this to me?"

A little tug on my balls warns me not to continue this line of chit chat. The intensity of her actions increases and I find it hard to stay standing. My legs are trembling and I have to hold myself up against the counter if I'm going to survive this. I want to thrust into her mouth, but she's already taking me in so deep I swear I feel the back of her throat. I can feel my body tighten, desperate for release.

"Mac, I don't want to finish it like this," I say, slipping out of her mouth. I help her off of her knees and kiss her. Her lips taste of me, of rain water and of the night. Of cinnamon and vanilla and everything that reminds me of being safe and secure and . . . shit, I've become overly sentimental.

"What are you smiling about?" Mac asks as our lips separate.

"Nothing. I'm still trying to adjust to this. To the fact that you are not only my friend and partner, but my . . . lover," I say before dusting her with light kisses.

"I will take time to adjust. Especially when we return home and this has to stop," she says, her voice permeated with unexpected sadness. I step back from her and our eyes lock on to the other's. "Come on, Harm. I know you have been thinking about it. We don't have a lot of options."

"Then why are we doing this now?" I ask, my arousal dying fast.

"Because I love you and I'm pretty sure you love me and this could be it our only chance. What are we going to do, Harm? Sneak around? Do this only when we are away on a case? On aircraft carriers and submarines?" she asks, stepping back toward me. Her hand smooths across my chest, circling above my heart.

"It is pretty much impossible to do this on a carrier without it becoming the scuttlebutt of the day. And submarines . . . forget it," I say and she laughs.

"Not if you want it bad enough. Like how I want you," she says, wrapping me in her arms. We stand here together, swaying in time to some unheard music shared by just the two of us.

"How do you want me?" I ask. She smiles at me before standing on her tip toes and whispering something in my ear. She moves back away from me, her honeyed voice still ringing around my ears and just the words she uttered make me grow hard again.

I can't even utter a syllable before she turns around and slides her hands across the slick wall. The water trickles down her backside, glistening even in this dim light. She looks over her shoulder at me with a smile, and I take a step toward her, grasping on to her hips, pulling her closer to my body.

My cock surges as it makes contact with her wet folds, and Mac pushes back against me, seeking out more. I need more, too. More of her. More time. More ways to make this all work. Instead, I greedily take what I can get and sink into her body. An involuntary moan escapes from both of us at the same time as I thrust in to the hilt. She counter-thrusts, pushing back against me as I come toward her, meeting me stroke for stroke.

I reach around, seeking out her clit, wanting her to enjoy this as much as I am. She lets out a short sigh as I find that little bundle of nerves at the apex of her sex and find a rhythm she likes. It becomes a stream of constant motion, her body against mine, and my mind can barely focus on so many sensations at once.

This is all going too fast, yet at the same time it feels as if time has stopped for just the two of us. This is it. The two of us are all that matters right now.

Mac begins to tremble under my touch as she comes, hands slipping down the wall as she tries to gain control. Her body shudders around mine, muscles tightening and releasing, drawing me closer to the edge of my own release.

She focuses on me again, our bodies pounding against each other, with water flying everywhere. My fingers grip on to her hips, pulling her to me, together as close as any two people can be. I spiral out of control, descending into a blinding light before everything becomes black. I come back to this world only to find myself leaning on Mac, gasping for air. I slip out of her, all wet and sticky and she turns toward me.

The water dwindles into nothing more than a sporadic drop here and there, and I reach past Mac and turn it off.

"We are never going to figure out how to get out of here if we keep this up," she says with a gentle laugh.

"Mac, if we keep this up, I'm not sure I want to figure out how to get out of here," I say, as I take her into my arms and hold her tight.

****************

The light patter across the aluminum roof of the trailer rouses me from a deep slumber. It sounds like cats running in circles and never catching what they are after, but I know it is only more rain. Mac is tucked in under my arm, sleeping soundly through the gentle noise. Someone cut the generator hours ago, submersing us into darkness. There was nothing else to do but curl up together and sleep, to catch up after one of the longest days the two of us have ever been through together. And this time, we were together in every sense of the word.

Slipping out of bed, I pull on a pair of camo pants they left, glad to finally have something clean and dry to wear. I peer through a dusty window to see the early morning sun struggling to make its way through the gray sky and losing the battle. This is the sunshine state, isn't it?

I also notice that there is someone still watching us. A younger man is leaning against a scraggly pine tree, holding a rifle in front of him. The rest of the compound is still quiet. Perhaps the hunters have yet to return from the hunt. They must do their best terrorizing in the dark.

There must be another way out of this trailer besides the guarded front door. If we could get out under the cover of darkness and get to the plane . . . and if no one notices us running across the compound and they don't hear the plane start and . . . it just goes on and on. I have to get us out of here. That is all there is to it.

The ventilation door on the roof is locked. I tap all around it it and try to pry it open, but have no luck. I push up on the roof around it, and feel that they placed something heavy on top of the vent. All the windows are too small for either of us to get out of, hardly letting any light in on a dismal day like today.

I kneel down on the tiny strip of old linoleum that makes up the floor and work my fingers under the edges. Maybe there is something underneath, a way through the bottom of the trailer that they overlooked.

"Did you make me breakfast?" Mac asks, propping herself up on her elbow and yawning. I look at her and smile. Her hair was still wet when we ended up in the bed last night, and now it is poking up in every direction. She looks at me and runs her fingers through it. "You've seen me look worse, so stop grinning."

"Yeah, but I've never been the direct cause for you looking so bad first thing in the morning," I say, rocking back on my heels and prying up a little more flooring.

"Oh, yes you have," Mac says, leaving it at that as she sits up and puts her feet on the floor. She is wearing only a brown t-shirt that they had tucked away in the clothes intended for me and I can't help watching her as she stretches her arms and yawns again. "What are you doing?"

"We need to figure a way out of here, Mac. If we are lucky, we can escape while they are out tonight . . . if they go out tonight," I say, tapping the newly exposed floor. So far, no obvious means of exit have appeared. There has to be something here, for drainage at least.

"What's that?" Mac says, pointing at an white envelope deliberately placed under a corner of the flooring. I pry it out from its hiding place, pulling out its contents. I sit down next to Mac so we can both look at the photographs that were well concealed.

The subjects of the photo are two seaman recruits with a tall, slender blond woman standing between them. They are all young, but I recognize the two men. One is now Petty Officer David Jacobs and the other is who we know as Crash. I assume the girl in the middle is Angie.

Mac takes it from my hand and turns it over, hoping they wrote something on the back. And luckily someone did.

'Dave Jacobs, Angie and Jeremy Lowman' is scrawled across the back in cursive handwriting. The date and location aren't noted, just the names.

"So . . ." I say, trying to put all the pieces together in my mind.

"So . . ." Mac echoes, flipping the photograph to the image side again.

"David Jacobs and Crash apparently know each other. And they seem to share a common interest. Two guys and one girl can only mean one thing," I say, studying all the young, smiling faces captured forever at that moment. What in the hell happened to this group that changed everything?

"Someone got their heart broken," she says, her soft voice filled with compassion. "When it comes to two guys and a girl, someone always gets their heart broken, and it usually isn't the girl."

I look at her, as she studies the picture intently. I wonder how many times she's had two men who wanted her? I can imagine it happening often.

"Since Angie is living here at Jacobs' hangout, I think I know who is the winner," I say, studying the girl in the middle. She has her head tipped toward David Jacobs and doesn't even seem aware that there is another man there. Crash is looking at her, an unmistakable longing in his eyes, while Jacobs seems more interested in the camera and catching his smiling face for all posterity.

"Jacobs sells weapons to Crash's group, who in turn sell them to Jacobs' group. Why the middle man? I don't get it. And why hide this photo?" Mac asks. She gets up and begins to dress in the BDUs I found for her last night. I watch her roll the sleeves up like a Marine, so the inside of the fabric is showing.

"You do that, and someone is going to catch on that you are more than what you appear to be," I say, but she leaves them that way.

"Someone already knows what and who you are. I assume Marcus already guessed I'm your partner, so I doubt my sleeves are going to blow our so called 'cover,'"she says. She goes digging around Angie's possessions, looking for something. She comes up with a pair of jungle combat boots in her hands and begins to slip one on. "Let's hope these fit. Good . . . they do."

"Poor girl," I mutter under my breath only to have the other boot sent flying my way. I duck in time and it bounces off the wall, clattering to the floor. "I didn't know you were so sensitive about your feet."

"For that comment, you owe me one foot massage . . . when we get home," she says without looking at me. She sits on the edge of the bed and works on lacing up her boots.

"You keep changing your mind about that," I say about her last comment, as she waivers again in what she wants. Not that I can claim that I'm sure of what the future holds.

I finish getting dressed, glad that Marcus gathered up a complete set of BDUs in the right size, even if they are in tiger stripe camo and not woodland camo like Mac's. I also have an assortment of jungle combat boots to choose from and an array of boonie hats. It would be my guess I'm going back outside sometime soon.

"I'm sorry," she says, offering up unnecessary apologies. "I don't mean to confuse you. It's just . . . I'm rather confused myself right now."

I watch her, as she laces up her boots in silent reflection. She seems unsatisfied with her first attempt and starts over.

"It will be okay," I say, trying to convince not only her, but myself, too. "Mac, we have got to work on getting out of here before we can work on . . . us."

"I know," she says, finally looking at me.

I hear someone stomp up the steps in front of the trailer and I rush to put the linoleum back in place before they can unlock the door. Mac manages to hide the photograph inside the folds of her dirty jeans.

We are both standing when the door finally swings open. It is Marcus Brennen again, and two men come in behind him. They are all armed and ready to draw their weapons.

"Elsworth wants to see you, Commander. And you . . ." he starts, nodding at Mac.

"Colonel MacKenzie," she says. There is no reason to hide who we are anymore. Obviously, Brennen said something about us.

"Come with me. He's waiting."

**************

"What did you tell him?" I demand of Marcus Brennen as he escorts us across the compound. He is in lead, the two other men walk behind us. "Come on, Brennen, don't let us go in there blind. I want to know what Elsworth knows."

"He knows what you are, but not why you are here. That is all I'm going to tell you," he says, before we reach another trailer. It is set off from the rest, protected from prying eyes by a screen of palmetto palms.

"So, as far as he knows, Jacobs just stumbled into us in the swamp and brought us here?" Mac asks as Brennen knocks on the door.

"I said Elsworth knows who you are. Jacobs has no idea. You play it how you want to," he says as someone barks a command for us to enter. The men behind us shove us into the trailer, but only Brennen remains. The other two men back out of the door and wait outside.

Harlan Elsworth is leaning against a heavy oak desk, arms crossed over his chest. He his dressed like some kind of environmental commando and has a map of southern Florida tacked up behind him. It is complete with little red flags dotting the periphery of the Everglades, mostly to the north. Right where the sugar cane industry has a strong hold. A few also dot the eastern edge, where civilization is encroaching in on the wetlands.

"What did you two think you were doing? And who in the hell are you working for? FBI? ATF?" he asks, his voice not displaying any sign of worry about who or what we are.

"We aren't working for anybody but the Judge Advocate General, but you already know that," Mac answers.

"And you were just vacationing out in the wetlands? I doubt that. What were you doing out there?" he asks, his question aimed at me this time. His eyes meet mine and he tries to stare me down with a cold, gray glare.

"We are investigating a sailor who went U.A. earlier this week after allegedly stealing supplies from the Navy," I answer, not supplying any names. Elsworth should be able to put the pieces together for himself. If we don't tell him, Brennen will. He breaks his stare as he slides off the desk and walks around to the map. Elsworth touches a few flags, pushing their pins in firmly. He doesn't speak for several uncomfortable minutes.

"David," he finally says, more of a statement than a question. He turns from his flags to face us once more.

"Yes, sir. I'm afraid so," Mac says, confirming his suspicions. Brennen moves behind us, probably happy to get this news out in the open.

"And the kid just had to stumble upon you two in the middle of that huge park. God damn it. Leave it to him to do something so stupid," Elsworth says, shaking his head in disbelief. "Brennen told me who you were and I figured it just couldn't be a coincident."

"No, sir," I say, trying to figure out how in the hell we are going to get out of this now. He knows about Jacobs. He knows who we are. He knows if he lets us go and we take David Jacobs with us, we just can't forget about what we have seen here.

Several more unsettling minutes of silence go by. Elsworth paces behind his desk, his hands behind his back. Mac and I can do nothing but stand and watch him.

"Weapons? Did he steal weapons?" he asks. His pacing stops and he looks from Mac to me and back to Mac. "David has been stealing weapons?"

"Petty Officer Jacobs in under suspicion for allegedly stealing property from the U.S. Navy, and yes, some of that property that is missing is weaponry," I say, and I can almost hear the cogs in Elsworths brain churning around as he begins to put it all together.

"Weapons. He's stealing weapons and selling them to someone else. That son of a bitch," Elsworth says. "I didn't want him to be part of this. Never did. He had a chance in the Navy. Now the idiot has blown that all to hell."

"Mr. Elsworth, we are just here for Jacobs. If you turn over Jacobs and whatever weapons . . ." I start to say, and he cuts me off.

"Do I look that stupid? Do I?" he nearly shouts as he comes toward us. Mac and I both take a step back, only to be pushed forward again by Brennen. We are now caught in the middle of the two men with no way out. I can feel a sheen of sweat begin to form across my brow. I don't want him to think he has us in a panic yet. Then we would lose any control we might have, which is little at this point. "Damn that kid. I don't want to be responsible for your deaths, but I don't have much of a choice."

"Don't let it end this way, Mr. Elsworth. I know what cause you are working for out here and I don't believe you ever intended for people to die. And I don't think you want to be responsible for our deaths, either. Let us walk out of here with Jacobs," Mac says, trying to reason with him. Brennen still has one hand on each of our shoulders, holding us in place.

"I would give you David if only I knew where in the hell he was, but he's gone . . . whatever the hell you called it . . . from here, also," Elsworth says, his voice back under control. I'm not sure whether to believe him or not. He didn't look at us when telling us that.

There is one name that hasn't come up in this or any conversation. Angie. If she is involved in a relationship with Jacobs, does Elsworth know? Why would she hide that picture? And where in the hell is she anyway?

"Mr. Elsworth, it is time for this all to stop," I say emphatically. He stares at me, deep in thought before brushing past us toward the door.

"Yes, it is time for all this to stop," he says, his hand on the door knob. "It is time for it to stop and I'm going to make sure it does. Brennen, take care of them."

*************

Brennen escorts us out of the trailer and across the rain-soaked compound. The other men who had been watching the trailer must have departed with Elsworth for they are no where to be found. He walks quickly, without turning around to make sure we are still there. The rain had let up just a little, but it is beginning to drizzle again. The ground is saturated and some of the puddles go up over our ankles.

"What now?" I ask when we arrive at our destination, and Brennen gives me a smile. He unlocks Angie's trailer and tells us to get back inside. We enter and he follows us in, locking the door.

"You did what I needed you to do. Jacobs has gone to ground after hearing rumors about what you are and why you were out in the Everglades. Elsworth is going damn near kill the kid when he finds out everything he has been doing . . . which includes doing his daughter," Brennen says, smiling even wider.

"Angie is Elsworth's daughter?" Mac asks, looking around the trailer. The envelope is still tucked safely in her clothes, the picture hidden. She looks away before Brennen notices.

"Yes. And she's been in love with that ass Jacobs for years. Her father just doesn't know. I'll make sure he does," Brennen says, rubbing his hands together excitedly as if he is a starving man with a plate of food before him.

"Why do you hate Jacobs so much?" I ask, still trying to piece together how all these men came to be involved in the same thing.

"Because he promised me he'd help me when I was in trouble, but the asshole chickened out. Was afraid he'd be implicated, too. So he left me out to dry when he pr-promised . . ." Brennen says, but his train of thought is lost in all his anger. I watch as his hands ball up into fists and he hits the wall, putting a sizable dent into the structure.

"Are you going to help us get out of here?" I ask, hoping his anger is only directed at Jacobs and not me. I honestly still don't remember him, nor do I remember anything about David Jacobs from that long ago.

"So you can have every law enforcement agency on earth come down on us? Let me think about it," Brennen says, looking at his bloodied knuckles.

"Help us get out of here and we will let them know what you did," Mac implores. Brennen is actually considering it. He must realize this whole thing is going to fall apart if they are divided from the inside.

"And you will defend me . . . if we ever get caught?" he asks, looking at me.

"I don't know . . ." I start to answer honestly. I don't want to make promises I can't keep.

"I know. It won't me a military court. Probably federal court, right?" he asks Mac, starting to sound worried.

"Just help us get out and we will try to help," she says, taking a step toward him. "You have got to know that this whole thing is going to hell. Be the one who helps end it before more people get hurt."

"What do you need?" Brennen ask with a heavy sigh after giving it considerable thought. He is still rubbing his knuckles, making the scrapes worse.

"Get us to the seaplane and we should be able to get out of here," I say.

"And who's going to fly it?" he asks, laughing. He looks Mac up and down before looking at me.

"I can. I'm an aviator," I answer and he looks back to Mac. She nods her head 'yes.'

"No wonder you are such a goddamn cocky son of a bitch," he says, shaking his head. "Is there anything you can't do?"

"Find my way across the Everglades by myself," I say, chuckling along with him.

"Can you fly it at night? They are all going out again tonight. It would be easier," he says, looking out the small window to the area where the plane is tied up.

"I can fly at night," I say, sounding like the cocky aviator he just accused me of being. "But you need to tell me where in the hell I should go."

"I'll have everything ready for you for tonight. Just sit tight until then," he says as he turns to leave.

"What if Elsworth comes back?" Mac asks as he opens the door. He closes the door again so no one can hear what we are discussing.

"I'll just tell him I'm going to take care of the problem tonight."

************

Mac and I spend the day acting like mice trembling with worry that the cat is going to come home from the prowl too early. If it were possible for both of us to pace in this little structure at the same time, we would be doing so. Instead, we take turns.

I'm not entirely convinced all her worry is over Elsworth and our chances of getting out of here. I'm sure some of it is over the fact that we *will* be getting out of here and going back to DC. I'm not sure what to do yet. I want to hold her and tell her everything will be all right, but I'm afraid that will only make it worse. Do we end it now before we ever get out of here? Do we keep putting it off, hoping for a way to make it all work out to present itself?

She is sitting on the bed reading some magazine she found among Angie's personal belongings. I'm almost certain she really has no interest in 'Cat Fancy' but it gives her something to do besides watch me. And pace.

Now I know why this was all such a bad idea in the first place. . . starting something that had no way to survive. Yet, if I could do it all over, I wouldn't change any of it. This thing between us . . . this thing that has gone on for years . . . had to culminate in something. But how are we ever going to survive this?

I sit down next to her on the bed and she moves away from me. Not a lot, but enough for me to notice. She looks up at me briefly, a half smile on her face, before returning to her reading. I watch as her hands shake a little, as she flips to the next page.

"Mac, what's the matter?" I ask, pushing her magazine down so I can see her face. She tilts her head to the side and sighs.

"Nothing. Just anxious. It will be nice to get home," she says, her eyes looking past me.

"Yeah. Then we can start dealing with these people from a better vantage point," I say, lying beside her. I'm exhausted and just tired of it all. Of being out of control of the situation. Tired of having no way out except for the ones controlled by other men. Having no clue as to what is going to happen between the two of us once we are away from here.

"What are we going to do next?" she asks, tossing her magazine to the side. The trailer is beginning to grow dark since the sun can't make its way through the late afternoon storm clouds. No one has turned on the generator, so we are left alone in this gray, dismal place.

"Hopefully, the plane will have enough navigation equipment so I can get us somewhere safe. I'm sure by now someone is looking for us. If I keep track of where we are coming from, then they should be able to find their way back here. But until then, we get to wait," I say, shutting my eyes but fighting off drifting into sleep.

Of course, it might not be *that* easy. I don't know what kind of equipment is on the plane. I've flown many missions over an absolutely black sea without a landmark, but I've had state of the art electronics guiding me safely back to the carrier. I have no idea what this plane will have and I certainly don't want to get lost over the Everglades or the Gulf of Mexico in the dark. If I can find the coastline and follow that . . .

Someone knocks on the door and we both jump. It is far too early for Brennen to be back to get us. It isn't even evening yet even though it looks otherwise. I stand up, as if I'm now afraid of committing an act of impropriety, but Mac remains on the bed.

The door unlocks and a man I've never seen before steps in. He slides a basket across the floor and never makes eye contact with either of us.

"Brennen told me to bring you some food," are his only words to us before he departs. I retrieve the basket and put it on the bed next to Mac.

The basket contains a meal of cold chicken, apples and two Diet Cokes along with the utensils necessary to eat it. Mac unpacks it carefully and I sit down on the bed again.

"Good. I'm starving. One can only live on love for so long," she says, giving me a playful smile as she pops open the top of her soda. She takes a sip, sets it aside and goes digging through the basket again.

"I don't know. I was pretty satisfied," I say, catching her attention. I crunch into an apple, the sound resonating around the tiny trailer. She smiles. I turn the apple to the intact side and offer it to her. She leans in and takes a bite through the skin and soft flesh, the juices running down her chin. I wipe it off with the edge of my thumb.

"So was I," she says after she swallows. I lean in and kiss her. Her lips are still sticky from the apple and soon our tongues are delving, searching for more of each other. The apple falls from my hand and rolls across the floor of the trailer, ending up forgotten in some corner.

Apples have always gotten people in trouble. We are certainly no exception.

I am beside her, holding her, not really wanting any more right at the moment. There is too many other things to think about right now. I just want to be with her like this while I still can. She maneuvers me so I am lying on my back, and her head is resting on my chest. The basket of food is forgotten for now. That can come later.

For right now, this is all that matters.  
**************

The door flies open, slamming against the metal wall of the trailer with a resounding clatter. Men . . . more than two and less then a dozen . . . storm into the trailer, and I can hear ammunition being chambered into weapons. I can't see exactly what they are carrying, but there is one against my flesh, the metal pressing into my temple.

"Get up!" someone shouts at us, the intense beams from Mag Lites hitting our faces, blinding us. Mac grabs for me, but a man pulls her away, keeping the light in my eyes so I can't find her easily.

We are pushed out of the trailer into the darkness, not sure what is going on or even who is doing the pushing. The first thing they do is separate us and my heart begins to pound harder as soon as they drag Mac out of sight. Someone has my arms behind me and I can't turn around.

"Mac!" I cry out, trying to look for her in the darkness, and I get punched in the gut.

"Shut up, soldier!" the man at the other end of the fist says. I can barely make out his eyes in the glimmer of light, and he's enjoying this. I have no idea what is going on and I search wildly for Mac. I can't see her.

"Sailor," I choke out, gagging on the taste of bile rising up the back of my throat.

"Sailor, then," the man says, and I try to avoid another punch, but he doesn't miss that easily.

I'm being dragged toward the water . . . toward the plane. Where is Mac? She's not saying anything. What in the hell did they do with her?

Elsworth is standing on the dock, armed and dressed in black BDUs, ready to go out in the dark of night. He grabs my arm and pulls me away from my captor. Thankfully, they turn the light away from my eyes.

"So, you're a pilot?" he asks, his voice too calm for the situation. I'm surrounded by his men and I can't see Mac anywhere. Something isn't right.

"Where did you take her?" I ask before answering his question.

"She will be safe here, but we need you to fly us somewhere. Now," he demands and I look at the small plane. I'm not sure how many people he expects to get into it. Not his whole 'army' I'm sure. And how in the hell does he know I can fly that thing anyway?

"Not without Colonel MacKenzie," I say, holding my ground. Someone behind me grabs me in a choke hold, large, muscular arms wrapping tightly around my neck. The man smells of sweat and over exertion. I can feel each muscle in his huge arm tense as he holds me in place.

"She stays here," Elsworth says, looking away from the me and the plane over toward the camp.

"I can't fly you anywhere if I'm dead," I manage to say, choking from the pressure placed upon my neck. I feel the arm release a little , but not enough for me to get out of the hold. Where in the hell is Brennen? I can't see him anywhere. He said he'd get us out. I hope he didn't instigate this fiasco because I'll kill him myself.

This is all going to hell fast. We should have gotten out while we had a chance this afternoon instead of depending on someone else.

"Our pilot has gone with David. I need a pilot to get me to where they are hiding and you are my man. Now, either you do this or I just go along with my original plan and kill both of you," Elsworth says, getting closer with every word. His breath is hot on my face and even though he won't show it, I know he is angry. It is all going to hell for him, too.

"I won't go without her so I guess you can just kill me now," I say. The heavy punch that Elsworth lands in my gut makes me want to go down, but I can't. Not with the arm that is wrapped around my neck like a rope ready for hanging.

"Are you sure that is what you want, Commander Rabb?" Elsworth asks, rubbing his knuckles.

I won't leave this place without Mac. I try to convince myself that this has nothing to do with the new status of our relationship, but I'm not so sure. Would I have left her behind last week, knowing well that Mac can take care of herself? Would I be so scared of losing her? Damn it, I didn't want to be tested like this so soon.

No, I wouldn't have left her. Not if I had a choice and right now I have a choice. They need me. I can bargain with them yet. We are partners in this and I will not leave Mac with any loose cannons like Elsworth.

"She comes with," I say one last time, my voice dead serious, and Elsworth nods at someone. The man runs off into the dark and I hear a door open and close.

"Nothing like a man in love, huh, Quinn? That might come in handy," he says, and the man behind me lets go. "Hope you don't get her killed out there, Commander. That would be a real shame . . . knowing she could have been safe here but instead, you had to drag her out into the wilds."

"Colonel MacKenzie is a Marine. I'm sure she will do just fine," I say, staring at the cool and composed man in front of me. Of course it is easy for him to remain composed. He has all his 'soldiers' here doing the work.

A man pushes Mac down the embankment toward the dock, giving her a final shove at the end. I catch her, helping her regain her balance before letting her go. Our eyes meet for just a second but no words have to be spoken. I wouldn't leave her for many reasons, but one is this might be our way out.

"In the plane. Now," Elsworth orders and Mac gets pushed toward the back. Only Elsworth and three of his goons are going with us and it is going to be a tight squeeze in this plane.

"Not until I look it over," I say, trying to buy a little time. I grab a flashlight out of someone's hand and begin to inspect the as much of the plane as I can from off the dock. "I won't take it up into the air until I do a check."

"Make it quick," Elsworth says, standing guard over me the whole time. This is the only way I can check water currents and wind speed. I have to be able to see how much room I have to work with.

I try to remember everything I learned about flying a seaplane the one time I did it . . . years ago. I was in the Bahamas and it belonged to a friend of my step-dad's. And it was nothing like this. Shit. I'm going to get us all killed.

Certain that the plane is mechanically sound, or as sound as one can tell held at gunpoint in the dark, Elsworth and I get in.

"You okay?" Elsworth asks as he takes the seat next to me. This is our only way out. Get them to where they want to go and get the hell out of there ourselves. Mac is silent in the back, and I know she is probably worried. Anytime she gets into a plane where I'm the pilot, things have gone badly.

"Just fine," I reply. Quickly my mind recalls hydrodynamics and the phases of a seaplane takeoff. Water displacement and plowing and planing. The water isn't glassy, but rather has a light chop. With the weight of this thing, that is good. The clear patch of river I have to work with isn't very big but apparently it has been done before. "Where are we going?"

Elsworth shows me a series of numbers and charts. We will be heading northeast, up toward Lake Okeechobee. I will have to land in complete darkness out in the middle of nowhere on something called the Miami Canal.

"There will be people waiting for us to approach. They will light up where you are to land somehow," Elsworth says. Great. The old drug-runner's method of setting fires in coffee cans along the 'runway,' I'm sure. Except this time the runway is a canal.

I go through checking all the guages inside much to Elsworth's dismay.

"I'm not going anywhere until I'm sure she flies," I reply to his disgusted sigh.

"Come on, Commander. From what I found out about you today, you can fly F-14s. Now you are perplexed by a little seaplane?" Elsworth asks snidely. I have no idea where he found that out from and I don't recall telling him. He talked to someone. Or heard from the people who would be looking for us.

"I once crashed an F-14, too. Right smack into the deck of a very big aircraft carrier. Boom!" I say, looking him straight in the eye. Mac makes a tiny noise of amusement in the back and the other men shuffle nervously in their seats. I hear a seatbelt click shut. "You want to try that in this little plane that doesn't come equipped with ejection seats?"

With that, Elsworth sits back and doesn't bother me while I go through further checks. Thank God the plane is equipped with some sort of radar equipped and a state of the art radio. Where in the hell do these people get enough money to buy the these things? There has to be more to this than eco-terrorism.

We bounce on the river as I prepare for take off and I take a quick glance back at Mac. She is watching me closely and I'm sure all of her experiences are flashing through her mind right now. I open up the throttle and everything I learned comes back to me with ease. Somehow, we become airborne with a minimum of plowing and I hear a sigh of relief from the back when we don't crash into the mangroves at the end of the river.

"That wasn't so bad," Elsworth says, finally looking at me. He is a little more pale than when we began.

"Not too bad," I agree with a chuckle. "But I should warn you . . . when I crashed that F-14 . . . it was during landing. At night."

************

I can see the makeshift 'landing strip' off in the distance. A series of small flames cut through the night sky, forming a straight line down both sides of the canal. I've landed in worse conditions, but so far, my goal has always been missing the water, not landing on it.

For the first time since we took off, Elsworth breaks radio silence and the men on the ground acknowledge our presence and give us a wind direction. More torches are lit as I make my approach and I can tell they have done this enough times to know exactly what I need to land. Then again, I've run into so many damn present and former Naval personnel since we've been here, maybe one of them was an LSO in his past.

"Everybody strapped in tight?" I joke with the guys in back and they all mumble something in response. "Good. I can't tell the condition of the water, so it might get a little bumpy."

I also can't tell if there is anything floating in the water. I could smack into a good size piece of debris and it would be all over. Elsworth even pulls his strap tighter. Not that it would do him much good if I miss the water entirely. Since I have Mac with me, I will try my hardest to get us down without incident. I care less about any of these men.

We make touchdown, and I apply back elevator control to maintain pitch. I reduce throttle after I'm sure we are firmly on the water and finally cut the power. Elsworth's men tie us to the shore and begin to extinguish the lights to avoid detection. The men in back hurry out of the plane, splashing down into the water, and Mac stands up to follow them.

"Where do you think you're going?" Elsworth asks her as he gathers up his gear. Mac looks to me and I shake my head. I have no idea what the plans are. I doubt they are going to leave us alone with the plane but taking us along would be a burden. "You aren't going anywhere until I tell you to."

Mac resigns herself to the rear of the plane and it begins to rock as Elsworth starts hauling things from out of under the seats. I can barely make out the items, but I think it might be some of the smaller armaments Jacobs made off with.

"What are your plans, Elsworth?" I ask, and receive only a chuckle in response. He douses his flashlight, sending the plane into darkness. If the moon could fight through the clouds, we might be able to see something. Like a way to escape. Escape to where is another matter entirely.

"I'm going to get David's ass out of his cane hideout if I have to burn it all down. That way, I'll be killing two birds with one stone. Take care of David. Take care of the cane farmers. It's too early to burn the cane out. They will suffer badly. Then I'll be back and ready to go home," Elsworth says, still chuckling as if this is the best idea he's ever heard.

"What about us?" Mac asks, her eyes studying him even in the darkness.

"I want both of you out of here and then I'll secure you until I get back. Why? Did you want to come with, Colonel?" he asks, reaching for her. She doesn't reach back, but rather recoils slightly. "Didn't think so."

Mac and I climb out of the plane and end up in the water. Someone reaches for her hand to pull her out, but I have to drag myself up the side of the canal. Elsworth follows, carrying his gear carefully over his head, preventing it from getting wet. As soon as he is on shore, one of his men jumps into the water to drag more equipment out of the plane. We are standing in field, thick with weeds and brush, but at least it is dry here. I can't see much else except we are surrounded by trees.

"How are we going to do this?" someone asks. It isn't one of the men who was in the plane with us. I don't recognize this one at all. "You want me to tape them up? Or use the handcuffs?"

He leers at Mac with some sort of sick anticipation and I step toward him only to be pulled back by another man. Mac becomes angry in a flash and makes a move toward the leering man, but I motion for her to step back. We certainly can't take on this whole crowd.

"Nah. She can't fly that thing and they aren't going anywhere, so just cuff him. We won't be long. David should come running out of there like a rat with his tail on fire as soon as he figures out what we are doing," Elsworth says before going about his business.

The man behind me grabs my wrists. I feel the cuffs clamping down and he locks them just a little too tight,trying to make some sadistic point. Mac actually winces more than I do as they click in place.

They gather around Elsworth, listening closely to their final instructions. They look like football players in a huddle and I can't hear a single word they say. Mac strains to listen, but just shakes her head 'no' when I ask if she caught any of it.

"You two behave out here," Elsworth says as his men break their huddle and begin to pair off. They are all dressed in either black or some variety of camouflage BDUs and they all are armed.

I watch as they begin to stalk off into the night, a few pairs going off in different directions from the general pack. They don't even bother to leave someone to watch us. We must appear to be so incompetent that Elsworth doesn't think we could figure our way out of here. In a way, I suppose he is right. I don't have any idea where we are right now. But that isn't going to keep me from trying.

The last man leaves the area and Mac comes closer to me and examines the handcuffs.

"There's got to be something around here that we can use to get these off," she says, her fingers entwining with mine briefly.

"The only place would be on the plane, and if you get down the embankment, I don't know if I can help you get back up," I say. She comes from behind me and puts her hand on my chest so casually, it's as if we've been together forever.

"I get can back up by myself, Harm. I'm still that Marine you knew a few days ago. You haven't changed me that much," she says, her voice soft and reassuring. She begins to walk toward the plane before I stop her and call her back to me.

"Hey, Marine . . . how fast do you think you could learn to fly a plane?" I ask, completely serious.

Instead of an answer, all I get is an open-mouthed expression of complete surprise.

**************

"No way," she says when she can finally speak again, refusing my suggestion that she fly us out of here. "I will not risk my life and yours. There's got to be another way."

I look around us, out into the miles of nothingness and night and then look back at the plane. It really would be the fastest means of escape.

"Come on, Mac," I plead, knowing she can do it. She's going to have to try.

"If it were 'Sarah' would you be asking me to do this?' she asks and I apparently don't answer fast enough. "I didn't think so."

"No, she isn't 'Sarah' . . . but . . . oh, that doesn't matter now . . . this plane is our only way out of here, Mac. We've got to try this. Or else they will be returning and we will be flying them back . . . and then who knows what," I say.

"I'm going to go check out the plane like we agreed upon. I'll see if there is anything to get those cuffs off. Maybe there are some emergency supplies in there, too. A radio or something," she says, walking away from me. I follow as fast as I can and watch as she slips down the embankment and pulls herself into the plane.

"Mac, if nothing else we can motor it up or down the canal . . . and if we don't run into anything, like floodgates, we should get somewhere," I call out to her. She doesn't respond. I watch the plane rock gently from her movements and finally, she reappears with a flashlight in hand.

"They took the radio with them. I can't find another one, oh, and no keys, either. But I did find an emergency bag with a flare gun. Do you think anyone would see them if we fired some flares from here?" Mac asks. She pulls herself back up the embankment, holding a duffel bag over her head to keep it dry. She put the flashlight in her mouth for the same reason.

"Yeah, Elsworth and his men would probably see it. They'd probably be back here in about ten minutes," I say, watching her unpack the bag. The small flashlight is better than nothing and it illuminates a tiny sphere of space for us. Elsworth was careful not to leave us with a radio but he must not have been too worried about the flare gun. Obviously, he doesn't know the damage they can do.

Mac unfolds a map, trying to figure out where we are. I'm not even sure where we are and I flew us here. All I know is we are south of Lake Okeechobee and west of U.S. Route 27. I figured that out from the map Elsworth showed me.

"Here's a major highway . . . we could walk to it and hope someone picks us up," Mac says, her finger tracing a thin red line denoting a highway that is out in the middle of nowhere.

"Who's going to pick up a man dressed in cammies and wearing handcuffs?" I ask. My arms are beginning to cramp from being held like this, but I don't have much of a choice but to suffer with it until I can convince her to fly us somewhere. "Come on, Marine. You know you can do it. Besides, I'll be there to help."

"Yeah. A lot of help you'll be," Mac says, folding the map back up neatly and shoving it back into the bag.

"We will follow the path of the canal. We won't fly that far above it and then we can touch down when we reach Lake Okeechobee. Then we can use the flare gun. We can't be that far from the end of the canal and I think there is even a small town there. Mac, you don't want to have to go back to their encampment, do you? We have more control over this then Elsworth thinks. We can get ourselves out of here now," I say, hoping my appeal works.

She looks up at the night sky and then to the direction the road would be in. Mac doesn't say anything right away, but at least she isn't rejecting the idea completely. She has taken the controls on the Stearman before and has done just fine. Of course, I had the ability to grab the controls at any time.

"Okay . . . okay . . . I'll do it. I just hope we don't regret this," she says, focusing completely on me. Her eyes aren't exactly instilled with self-confidence.

"I have yet to regret anything I've done with you, Mac," I say and she looks down at the ground, knowing exactly what I meant by that. We are close to getting out of here. Close to having to return to life as normal. We know we have to but that doesn't mean we are ready to end this or work this out or whatever will have to be done.

"Let's do this," she says, looking at me again.

"You'll do fine," I tell her as reassuringly as I can. "Flygirl."

**************

"When you start her up, she's not going to stay stationary. She doesn't have brakes like a landplane," I say, offering more instructions. Mac is looking skittish already as she tries to remember everything I've told her so far.

"Okay," she answers, looking at the switches and gauges. There aren't that many, really, or at least not compared to the amount in what I'm used to flying.

"We will stay in this level position until you pick up some speed . . . above seven knots, I would guess. Then she will go into a plowing position, with her nose up in the air. That isn't what we really need to take off. She needs to be in a planing . . ." I start to say and she interrupts me.

"I have no idea how you expect me to do this," she say excitedly, turning to me. "Planing. Plowing. Porpoising. I haven't even started the plane up yet and I'm already lost."

"Damn it, Mac!" I say, and she looks pissed. "I'm sorry. I guess I just think is should come naturally to people. I've done it my whole life."

"It's okay. We are stressed out, but I don't want to get both of us killed trying to escape. It isn't worth it, Harm. If this thing goes down in the water . . . and you have on handcuffs, I don't know . . ."

"If I could just get out of these things, we could be out of here," I say, jerking my arms behind me. We are both wet and tired and beyond the point of frustration. "Mac, let's try it. I'm right here. I know how it is supposed to feel. It isn't like you are doing this by yourself and I know you can do it. I've gone over it with you twice now and I think you are ready."

"One more time," she says, and I review it all again, slowly, asking her as many questions as she asks me.

"Well, you now know the theory behind it. Let's see how you do. You are going to have to take the ropes off the mooring cleats. I can't do a damn thing," I say, and she crawls out of the pilot seat and out the door. I feel us begin to drift just slightly before she gets back in. The water is very smooth and slow moving, which doesn't always make for optimal take off conditions. There is no wind to push us along.

Before we drift too far, she's back and sitting in her seat in front of the control.

"I didn't know you could fly something without a stick, Harm," she halfheartedly jokes, wrapping her hands around the U-shaped 'wheel.'

"Hey, I like my stick," I joke back and her face is graced with a slight smile.

"So do I," she mutters under her breath before everything gets serious again. "Let's get going."

"Turn her on and let her idle until we are in the middle of the canal . . ."

"Like I can see the middle of the canal," Mac interrupts as she lets the plane sputter to life and idle.

"If we hit the other side of the canal, then you missed the middle," I say, and she doesn't laugh. Actually, I think she is holding her breath.

"Now what?" she asks and before I can get answer her, a round of gunfire explodes from the bank of the canal.

"Damn! Someone must have come back! Now you get to learn how to fly this thing real fast, Mac," I say, hearing more gunfire peal off but miss us.

Then, as if she's been doing this forever, Mac takes the controls and follows every direction I gave her. The plane plows a little more than I would like, but she keeps everything stable.

"How am I doing?" she asks, her voice rife with tension.

"Hold the elevator control full aft and advance the throttle to full power. Okay . . . use a slight back pressure pitch attitude and trim angle. . . "

"She's bouncing . . ." Mac starts to say as another shot goes over us.

"Shit! Um . . . use a smooth elevator pressure - that should keep her at a fairly constant pitch attitude and will allow the aircraft to "skim" across the the water as we get going faster. Okay, she's leveling out . . . put the water rudders up . . . good . . . now back up on the elevator pressure and . . ." I say and now a whole round of gunfire goes off. Judging from the sound, there's a pretty good chance one hit us and if it hit us in the floats, landing is going to be fun.

"We're up!" Mac shouts and indeed we are. I look out the small window as we leave the shooter behind. I can barely make him out, but he is pissed.

"You did it!" I say, as she levels the plane out and we fly smoothly over the canal. She says nothing as she concentrates on what she is doing, the tension evident in her face. It is hard to see what is below us, but Mac does a great job following the the line of the canal.

"So . . ." Mac asks, and I assume she's going to ask about landing. We didn't exactly have time to go over it before people started shooting at us.

"What?" I ask, looking over at her, ready for her questions.

"Does this mean I get to learn how to fly 'Sarah' when we get home? By myself?" Mac asks, the corners of her mouth turning up into a tiny grin.

"I don't know . . . I mean, learning to fly a seaplane while people are shooting at you is one thing, but learning to fly a Stearman . . ." I start, trying to come up with a good enough excuse to avoid this issue now.

"Harm, you remember how much you enjoyed that shower . . ." she says, as she adjusts the attitude of the plane slightly, compensating for a sudden shift in wind.

"Yes . . ."

"If you ever want to take a shower with me again, you'll teach me to fly 'Sarah,' she says, in effect, blackmailing me. Her voice is soft and honeyed, and I know I'm going to give in.

"Okay, I'll teach you to fly 'Sarah' . . . but only after we take another shower . . ." I say. "I must admit, I'm feeling a little dirty right about now."

"Okay, flyboy. You've got yourself a deal."

**************

"If we don't hit anything in the water on landing we should be okay," I say, struggling against the handcuffs in an attempt to see all the instruments. My wrists do really hurt and if we end up crashing into the water, it won't be all that easy to get out of here. But that isn't going to happen.

"What would we hit?" Mac asks, concentrating fully on what she is doing. Her eyes dart from all the instruments back out the window and then back to the instruments.

"We could hit a buoy or some debris or, heck, some drunk guys on a bass boat. I don't know. Just hope it doesn't happen," I say, trying to make out where the canal ends and the lake begins. It has to be coming up soon. "But remember, any landing you walk away from . . ."

". . . Is a successful landing. I know. I know. But that is easy for you. How many successful landings have you had?" she asks, and I'm sure she doesn't really want my running tally.

"I've made some bad ones, but I'm sure you know that. Missed a trap or two. But you will do just fine. We aren't going to crash out of the sky going a million miles an hour. You are going to set her down and then we are going to get some help," I say reassuringly. "Hey, look how far we made it already."

"Yes. This should be a piece of cake," Mac says, still watching the night sky.

"Mac, no matter what happens, I'm here for you, okay? Just relax . . ."

"Harm . . . what's that?" Mac asks, pointing at a series of flashing lights off in the horizon before grabbing the controls with both hands again quickly.

"I think that is best news we've had all week. Judging from the lights and the location, that's the Coast Guard search and rescue," I say, unable to hide the relief in my voice that there will be someone waiting for us. Mac lets out a big sigh and looks at me briefly before focusing on what she's doing again.

"I still have to get her down," she says. "And then when I do, we will be that much closer to normal life."

"You'll do fine. We will do fine," I say, as I start to prepare her for landing. Mac listens with the same rapt attention that she did when I was telling her how to take off.

"Got it," she says in between instructions.

During final approach, the plane should be flown at nose-high attitude, using the flaps. A rate of descent shouldn't exceed 150 feet per minute and at an airspeed approximately 10 knots above stall speed. With a constant power setting and a constant pitch attitude, the airspeed will stabilize, and remain so if no changes are made," I say, trying to remember everything.

"How come you don't teach, Harm? So you can't fly off of carriers, but how come they never offered you the opportunity to teach . . ." Mac interrupts as she begins to make a slow decent toward the lights.

"I don't know . . . you're doing good . . . when you touch down, back elevator control pressure should be applied so you maintain the same pitch attitude," I say. She is doing really well and I'm sure with a few lessons, she'll be able to fly my plane. Or maybe she will forget about that deal.

"Did you ever think about it?"

"I'm a lawyer now. That is what I do. You will feel a slight deceleration force and a downward pitching moment. You will know you are down when you hear sounds of water spray striking the floats," I say, and get ready for her to land this thing. The lights come from a series of boats making a path for her to land down. But how do they know it isn't me landing the plane?

"I'm I doing this right?" she asks as she adjusts her attitude a little. "I can't really see the damn water surface."

"You are doing fine. We are going to be okay," I say, as she lines the plane up precisely as I told her.

"How in the hell do you land something on a carrier at night?" she asks and I laugh.

"According to some, not very well," I joke, trying to relieve the tension built up in here. She gives me a little smile before going back to being a pilot. "Okay, remember what I said about cutting the power only after you are sure we are down."

"Got it," she says, and somehow, before I think she even knows how she did it, we are bouncing across the waves and coming to a complete stop.

"You get a pair of gold wings," I say with a smile. A boat moves in along side of us and shines a spotlight in as they get ready to board us.

"Back to the real world," Mac says quietly, looking down at her lap.

"Yeah. I guess so."

***********

Exhausted, Mac and I sit in a tiny room at the FBI Miami field office, answering question after question. The room smells like stale coffee and sweat and the fluorescent lights are far too bright for the time it is. Agents Nicole Larson and Tony Breen have been heading up the investigation concerning the events of the last few days but so far, no one has told us much in return.

"All we do know is that apparently someone heard the shots fired at the plane and called them in. A few men were captured and claimed you stole the plane in an attempt to leave the group. So far, Elsworth, Jacobs nor anybody else that we were looking for has been found. So, where do you think they are?" Agent Larson asks as if she believes we are somehow involved in the whole matter. We have been treated suspiciously this whole time. We went from Coast Guard custody to FBI custody without any explanation as to what was going on.

Agent Larson is tall and attractive and likes to swing her long brown hair around with a flourish. She has far too much energy for someone who's been up all night. Agent Breen seems to be the more calm of the two, yet he also looks at us as if we did something wrong.

"I don't know where they might be. Like we said, we were on a JAG investigation . . ." Mac starts to explain again. Again as in again for about the twentieth time.

"This is ridiculous. We've been missing for over 48 hours and now we are suspects . . . surely you can clear this up easily," I break in. I'm tired and I don't really need this now.

"What is going on here?" a familiar voice booms through the room. We all turn to see Admiral Chegwidden standing in the doorway, looking mad as hell.

"And you are?" Agent Larson asks, sweeping her hair off of her shoulder again. I heard some scuttlebutt that somehow she'd been transferred from Omaha to Miami in the last month because of a case she really screwed up. Now she doesn't want to drop the ball on this one and we are her only targets.

"I'm Admiral A.J. Chegwidden, Judge Advocate General for the United States Navy. Now once again, what's going on here?" he asks, not giving a damn who she might be. We called him earlier and he said he'd be on the first flight out of D.C. after calling off the search for us.

"We are holding Commander Rabb and Colonel MacKenzie in connection . . . "

"Correction. You were holding them. Commander Rabb and Colonel MacKenzie have nothing to do with the crimes you are investigating except in the capacity of victims and I would like to see you treat them as such. They were sent by my office on a JAG investigation of David Jacobs five days ago and were reported missing shortly after. So, I suggest you two give up the good cop/bad cop act and start looking into what they learned while being held hostage by your suspects," the admiral says, never taking his eyes off of Agent Larson.

"Thank you, sir," Mac says, her eyes narrowing at Breen. She's pissed. After everything we've been through, we didn't need this crap.

"Don't thank me. I just really want to hear what in the hell you two have been doing alone out in that swamp for the last few days," the admiral says, looking at both of us curiously. Mac looks like she's about to come undone as she clears her throat and looks down at the floor. He can't possibly know anything.

"What do you mean, sir?" I ask, as calmly as I can.

"I've always wanted to do some back country camping in the Everglades but never had the time. Now, once we are done here, I get to hear about it from you," he says nonchalantly. "What did you think I meant, Commander Rabb?"

**************

"The camp has been cleaned out," Agent Breen says, returning to the office with some files in one hand and a Styrofoam cup of coffee in the other. "They did find what they believe to be your personal belongings. . . here . . ."

He sets down his coffee and hands me my wings that I had left in the pocket of the jeans I had on. Out of all the supplies they had there, this is it?

"That's all that is left?" Mac asks, unable to believe that. The encampment wasn't that big, but there were quite a few trailers there.

"Some trailers were left. That's how we found it. But they were empty. Do you have any idea where they might have gone next?" Breen asks. He sits on the edge of the table, looking tense and exhausted. After the admiral showed up, Mac and I left for a few hours to catch some sleep in a nearby hotel. Separate rooms.

Now we are back and no longer being treated as suspects. Of course it helps that we are dressed in uniforms befitting JAG lawyers and not looking like some midnight commandos.

"I have no idea where they might have gone. We weren't privy to many of their conversations. Most of the time we were locked in a trailer . . by . . . ourselves. . ." I start before I remember something. Or rather, someone.

"What is it, Harm?" Mac asks, looking at me. Breen stops rubbing his bloodshot eyes and watches me, too.

"Angie. She wasn't there. She's our only chance of finding them," I say.

"Who's Angie?" Breen asks, flipping through the file in his hand again. "I don't have information about any Angie . . ."

"The Deluge Club," Mac says, remembering the matchbooks from her trailer. "The trailer they held us in belonged to a woman named Angie. She's Elsworth's daughter is has been involved with David Jacobs for years. She had a large amount of matchbooks from a place called The Deluge Club among her belongings."

"South Beach is a long way from where those trailers were," Breen says, obviously familiar with the club. He must notice my expression. "It is a place where rich kids hang out trying to screw each other physically and mentally. Lots of drugs and lots of money."

"She's got to show up there sooner or later," I say, looking to Mac. She nods in agreement.

"We will send in a team . . ." Breen starts to say.

"We've seen pictures of her. Let us go in. After years with her father, she'd sniff you guys out in a second," Mac interrupts. Breen starts to shake his head 'no' but Mac continues. "You guys will be covering the outside."

"Come on, Breen. There's going to be lots of pretty young women in there. We know what she looks like at least. We will try not to look out of place . . . Agent Larson can come in with us. She'll fit in with the crowd, I'm sure," I say, and Agent Breen laughs at some inside joke the two of them must share.

"Okay. Okay. I'll see what I can do about getting you on the guest list. The more women you have on your arm, the better the chance you have of getting in. Nikki is going to kill me for this one," Breen says with a chuckle.

"We will move down to a hotel on South Beach and give you a call in a few hours," I say, standing up. I've had enough of sitting in this office for now waiting for other people to do things.

"The Navy has money for a hotel on South Beach?" Breen asks suspiciously through a yawn.

"Well, look at all the money we saved them the last few days by sleeping in chickee huts and airstream trailers," Mac says with a smile. The first one in a while. I think she's happy to be involved again, too.

"Don't be in any rush. These clubs don't get going until late and I have a lot of arrangements to get done yet. And you both need to get some clothes. Those aren't going to do . . ." Breen says, pointing at our uniforms and chuckling. "I'll have Nikki . . . Agent Larson . . . call you, Colonel MacKenzie. She can help you with the local style. She's only been here a month but she's a pro."

************

I wake up from my nap to find Mac standing out on the balcony overlooking the ocean, staring out at everything but not really noticing anything. She is wearing a green slip of a dress she picked up earlier in a shop in the lobby and she looks quite amazing without the help of Agent Larson.

The sheer curtains blow into the room and across the window on an ocean breeze, muting the bright tones of the sea and sky. As if she knows I'm watching her, Mac turns around from the railing and gives me a nervous smile. She steps through the sliding glass door and back into the room, the curtains reaching out for her like vanilla fingers.

"Have a nice nap?" she asks, sitting cross-legged on one side of the bed.

"Yes. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to doze off on you," I say, rolling over on my side to face her. The room is painted in a rich blue, matching the ocean and sky outside. Everything else is white, to match the billowy clouds and the warm sand.

"That's okay. You've been busy the last few days," she says, a knowing smile on her face teasing me. I reach for her and run a finger down her arm, feeling her sun-kissed skin. It is a warm November day. The admiral said it was cold and raining in D.C. when he left and he had to return right away for a meeting with the SECNAV. He said he'd be back tomorrow but this had to be taken care of.

Still, Mac seems nervous.

"Are you all right?" I ask, pulling her beside me and wrapping my arms around her.

"I'm okay, Harm. Really, I am. I guess I just want to get this all over with so we can go home," she says, and I'm surprised at her words.

"Is there any reason you are now in a hurry to get home?" I ask. She rolls on to her back and I prop myself up again to look at her. Her eyes are closed, as if she's trying to do to everything possible to avoid me. I won't let her escape that easily. I trace a line across her collar bones and down her arm, tickling her as I go. She smiles softly and shakes her head.

"I guess I want to get home so I can figure out a way to prove to you that this will work," she says with a heavy sigh. "After all this, I can't go back to what we were before."

She still doesn't open her eyes, as if she's afraid of my reaction. Maybe she thinks I just want it to be this quick fling, over and and done with by the time we leave the state of Florida. That isn't what I want at all.

"No, we can't go back to what we were before. That I know for a fact. And if you want it to work, then I want it to work. We'll make it work," I say, leaning in to give her a kiss. When I pull back her eyes are open and she's smiling.

"How are we going to expense this place off, Harm?" Mac asks, looking around at large room with the view of the beach.

"I'm not. This is for you and me," I say, and she smiles again and gives me a quick kiss. "Luckily, summer rates are still in effect for another week."

"Oh . . . only the best for me," she says, laughing.

"Yes, I think so," I say, leaning over to kiss her again. This is all so crazy but I can't help myself now. So much for being back in the real world. We aren't there yet. Look at this place. This isn't real. There were half naked people roller blading down the streets. What can be real about that?

I ease my way in between her thighs, her small dress slipping up around her waist. I'm wearing only a pair of boxer shorts and I grow hard just from the proximity of her sex. I thrust against her a few times and she lets out a gentle moan under my mouth.

I want her badly. I want all of her and I don't want this to ever stop. Her hands struggle to pull my boxers off and this is going to be fast and hard. Just pure want and need. She throws my clothes to the side and I kneel in between her parted thighs as she pulls her dress over her head. Now she has nothing on but a black thong and I lick my lips in anticipation. She wiggles out of those, too, sending them the way of the rest of our clothes.

A warm ocean breeze blows through the room, sending the curtains flying again. The splash of sun plays across her body, lighting her up. I need that body now. I need all of her.

Sinking into her warm folds, our eyes stay locked on the others. The bright sun is in them, but I want to watch her. Even though foreplay consisted of nothing, she is wet and I slide in easily. Her legs wrap around my waist, allowing me to go in as far as I possibly can.

Our breath comes out in short, forced pants and I know I'm not going to last long. The joys of an afternoon quickie are many. Her hand snakes down in between our bodies and makes contact with her clit. I can feel her circling away as I thrust into her as hard as I can.

"Hold on," I whisper, changing our position. I'm on my knees with her legs over my shoulders, giving her better access to herself. This way I can watch what she's doing.

She's not shy, that's for sure, even though we've only been together just a few times now. Our bodies are glistening with sweat now, her hair sticking to her forehead in damp tendrils.

Within a few minutes, her body is in spasms beneath mine and she jerks her hand away, covering her eyes with it instead.

"Oh my God," she says softly as her body trembles through her orgasm. I stop moving, just enjoying watching her instead. Finally, she peeks out between her fingers and smiles. "You gonna finish?"

"Yeah," I say, letting her legs drop down around my waist. I thrust into her a few more times before I start to topple over the edge, too. At the last minute, I pull out of her body and release everything on her stomach and breasts. Her hand reaches down, pumping me even more, draining me of everything. I stay on my knees, staring at the mess we made . . . I made, and trace a finger through it, drawing a heart shape on her stomach.

"You just wanted to get me in the shower," she says, as I collapse on top of her. If we stay like this too long, we will stick together forever.

"How come you always know what I'm thinking?" I ask, closing my eyes, ready for another nap. I guess we have another three hours before we have to meet with Breen and Larson and get set up for tonight.

"Because I love you."

**************

The elevator opens to the lobby and we find Agent Nicole Larson standing there, looking down at the mosaic pattern on the floor, kicking at a tile with the toe of her high heeled shoe. She looks as if we are interrupting her plans for the evening and perhaps we are. I most certainly could have thought of a few things I'd rather have been doing.

"You look nice," Agent Larson says when she notices us, looking Mac up and down before even looking at me. Both women have on similar summer dresses made up of almost nothing and both are stunning. I was warned that I might not get in but chances are they will.

"Thanks," Mac says, smiling at me. I can tell she wants to reach for my hand but neither Breen nor Larson know about that part of our relationship and we'd prefer to keep it that way.

We walk out of the hotel and stand under the softly glowing neon lights that complement the deco design of the building. All the buildings along this strip are the same and they all are beautiful. Parked in front of this particular building is the latest in fashionable rides -- a candy apple red Hummer.

Agent Larson brushes up against my arm as she waves some keys in front of me with a smile. "We are borrowing the car for the evening. I think I made the right choice for the you. The FBI confiscated it in a drug bust a few months ago and Breen pulled the right strings to get it for us. I figured you'd be right at home in one. Think you can handle it?"

"He flies F-14s," Mac says, coming a little closer to me, a jealous edge moving into her voice.

"Well, then . . . this should be a breeze," Agent Larson laughs as she tosses me the keys. Her lips are the same red as the car, as are her long, well manicured nails. She sweeps her hair back over her shoulder and it flows in silky strands down her back. She doesn't look like an FBI agent anymore than Mac looks like a Marine Colonel right now. "You better ride in back, Colonel, considering I know where we are going. Oh, and please call me Nikki. Calling me Agent Larson would blow our cover. And I will call you Sarah and Harm, okay?

"I prefer Mac. Only intimate friends call me Sarah," she tells Agent Larson in quite a straight forward manner. I don't want to get into the whole thing and I notice Agent Breen across the street in an blue Crown Victoria waiting for us to get moving. He motions to his watch and I nod back.

"He calls you Mac and I'm guessing from the room arrangements you two are quite intimate," Agent Larson says, calling us on the relationship issue.

"Let's go," I say, ending this whole thing.

Mac climbs into the back, giving me a nasty look as she does so. Agent Larson is quite the character. When I asked Agent Breen about his partner, he said she's quite accomplished but hasn't ever been able to get back to Quantico and into the Investigative Support Unit. He also told me to ignore her outspoken and brash ways. Underneath, she's a pussycat. Somehow, I doubt that.

"Where to?" I ask, pulling this vehicle which is the equivalent of driving a toned down tank out into city traffic.

"Just keep driving until you see the crowds, I guess. I don't ever go to these places," Agent Larson says, buckling herself in. She crosses one long, tan leg over the other and shakes it in what appears to be boredom.

"Something wrong?" Mac asks from the back seat. Mac doesn't take her eyes off of the FBI agent, but the other woman doesn't seem to mind much. Maybe she's used to being the center of attention.

"What I don't get is how they knew to clear out the camp and how they did it so fast. Elsworth still hasn't come out of hiding . . . neither has Jacobs. So someone else is protecting something or someone," Agent Larson surmises, concentrating on the buildings as they go by.

"Didn't the men captured by the Miami Canal have radios?" Mac asks, reviewing everything one more time.

"Short range. There was no way they could have warned someone that far away. Besides, they would have had to start clearing that place out right after you left. I don't get it," she says, still studying the buildings as they go by. Mac studies her, looking surprised for some reason. Agent Larson catches Mac's eyes watching her. "What? I'm not all charm and good looks you know? I did graduate second in my class at the academy."

"Who was first?" Mac asks and Agent Larson just lets out a soft snort of discontent.

"You say this Angie had two guys who were in love with her. What if this 'Crash' was trying to protect her . . ."

"Crash isn't that smart, but Andy certainly would be. And that would protect his interests as well. Try to hide the evidence leading back to him. I could see that," I say. Agent Larson directs me around the busy streets. It is late and everything is just beginning to get jumping around here.

"Jacobs sold the weapons to this Andy to sell to Elsworth so he could attack sugar cane farmers because they are ruining the Everglades. That's a lot of money to save the 'glades. There's got to be more to it," Agent Larson says with a slight shoulder shrug. She fixes the hem of her skirt before looking out the window again.

"Well, hopefully, Angie knows because here we are," I say, driving by the Deluge Club. I know that Breen already arranged parking somewhere down the street and I find it easily. The other agents in an adjacent car eye up Agent Larson and Mac and give me a wink as we walk down the street and I ignore them. I see Breen park a ways down the street and ignore us as we pass.

Apparently, being on the guest list doesn't mean a damn thing, because all we get to do is wait in a different line. We are a lot older than the kids around us but the doorman seems totally indifferent to who any of us might be.

"No one famous tonight," Agent Larson says, leaning over to look at the line. "Just a lot of single guys trying to get some. You hang out at a lot of clubs? You look like the type."

Is she directing that question at me? I think she is. Mac sort of chuckles and turns away to look at the crowd.

"No, I don't. I prefer quiet nights at home, actually . . . not all this . . ." I start to say, but am interrupted by big, burly man putting his hand on my shoulder. He pulls me away from both Mac and Agent Larson and they watch as he leads me closer to the door.

"You and your party can go in," he says in a hushed voiced. Breen said he had a contact who had a contact here and perhaps this is it.

"Thanks," I say, as he releases me.

"No problem. Just do what you have to do and get out of here," he says, confirming my suspicions. "Get your party and follow me."

"Nikki . . . Mac. . . come on," I say signaling them over. Some younger man in the line makes a crude comment as to why they would be with me and Agent Larson turns to answer them, but Mac pulls her forward.

"You really are better looking than him . . . even if you are pushing what? Forty?" Agent Larson say as she brushes past me on her way to the entrance. She flips her hair around one more time before giving the doorman a charming smile.

Mac just shakes her head and smiles as if she knows something everybody else doesn't. I guess she just might.

"Come on . . . girls. Let's go in."

**********

I have some ideas as to why they call it the Deluge Club, but it is still a toss up as to what the real reason is. It is either because it is built overtop of several large aquariums and there are more built into the walls or it is because it is so hot in here, everybody is drenched in sweat.

The place smells like a high school gym mixed with booze and I guess to fully appreciate the atmosphere, I'd have to be younger and doing whatever those kids are doing in the corner. Some girl approaches me and asks me something, but I can't quite make out what it is over all the noise. I probably really didn't want to know anyway. She was just a little too young.

"You could be her father," Agent Larson says, leaning in close and talking louder than the music.

"Thanks. Did you find anything?" I ask, scanning the crowd for Mac. Agent Larson is going on a very old yearbook picture of Angie that someone found late this afternoon. She looked a lot younger than the woman in the picture we saw, but Larson said she's good with faces.

If she still looks like the picture Mac and I saw, she would blend in perfectly in here. Too young to be living like this but nothing better to do. I just can't imagine her living this life and living in that piece of crap trailer out in the Everglades, too, showering in cold rain water and living off a generator.

"Not yet. I'm going to go check the back rooms. That's where all the action goes on . . .unless you'd rather do it, sailor?" she asks, nudging me a little. It would take a while to get used to her, but I suppose it could be done. I've been teamed up with far worse.

"No. I wouldn't want to deny you the pleasure," I say, finally catching a glimpse of Mac from across the room. She ducks into the restroom before I can catch her eye.

"To be honest, Commander, this isn't my crowd," she says. We both stand against the wall, scanning the crowd with equal attentiveness.

"What? Is this crowd too young? You like your men a little older?" I ask, watching some guys preen before approaching a group of unapproachable young women. They crash and burn before they can even open their mouths. The girls just turn around and walk away.

"No, this crowd is too straight," she says quietly, her voice barely rising above the Latin music filling the room.

"Ahh... okay," I say, looking down at her. She looks back and gives me a smile.

"I had better go check those rooms. Here comes your girlfriend," she says as she walks away from me and disappears into the crowd.

"I can't find her," Mac says as she takes Agent Larson's place by my side.

"Nikki is going to go look some place I guess we don't want to go," I say, trying to speak up as the music changes again into something even louder. My hand brushes against hers and I want to take it in mine.

"So, it is Nikki now?" Mac says, making some sort of pouty face that I've either never seen before or I've simply never noticed.

"Mac, you really don't have to worry about Agent Larson . . . . or any woman for that matter . . . for several reasons, but most of all because I want to be with you, okay?" I ask, wrapping the tip of her fingers in mine.

Before she has a chance to answer, a commotion comes from the general direction of where Agent Larson just went. Mac and I hurry over there to find Larson dragging two half naked people out by whatever clothes they still have clinging to their sweaty bodies. One is a blond female, struggling to cover herself. The other is a young man with short haircut and dogtags around his neck.

"Look at who I found livin' la vida loca in the back. Where in the hell are the cameras for 'Cops' when you need them?" Larson asks with a grin, and the face of Petty Officer David Jacobs looks up at me.

************

"That was stupid, Jacobs," Breen shouts at the young petty officer, but he doesn't flinch. "Her goddamn father wants you dead. The United States Navy and Marine Corps were out looking for you. *And* the FBI *and* the ATF and God knows who else and you can't keep your damn dick in your pants long enough to get away with it."

We are back at the FBI field office and have been listening to Jacobs spout the same crap for hours. Angie isn't much better. Except she cries every few minutes. I sit in the corner watching Jacobs, knowing that he will be my problem soon enough. Right now, we just want to know where Elsworth is before he does any more damage to the sugar cane farmers.

"I don't know what you are talking about, sir," Jacobs says, sitting as straight as he can in his metal folding chair.

"Cut the crap, Jacobs. It isn't like you and I haven't already met," I say, but he doesn't budge.

"I know my rights, sir," he says, looking at me quickly before looking away. "I have a right to an attorney."

"This is going to be handled by the Navy, Jacobs. The Judge Advocate General is going to assign someone to prosecute this case and you had better just hope it isn't me," I say, standing up and towering over him. I'm tired of his attitude. I'm tired of his mouth. I'm tired of him.

"Wouldn't assigning you to prosecute or defend me be a conflict of interest, sir?" Jacobs says, unable to shut up when he should.

"Attention on deck!" I say as the door swings open. Jacobs stands up and his chair tips over backwards as he and I snap to attention. Breen watches us with curiousity and resigns himself to the back corner of the room for the moment. He knows in the end, the Navy will have jurisdiction on this one anyway.

"At ease," Admiral Chegwidden says as he enters the interrogation room. Without even saying a word to me, he moves within one inch of Jacobs face, almost making him flinch. "So, you're the one who has caused all the trouble the last few days. You are the reason two of my people were kidnapped and taken into the Everglades . . ."

"They didn't seem to mind. They looked pretty cozy . . ."

"Did I ask for your opinion of their trip, Petty Officer Jacobs? I don't remember asking you that, do you?" Chegwidden asks, moving in even closer. Jacobs could say a lot things that would create a whole hell of a lot of trouble outside of this room. His eyes move to mine quickly but I don't give him anything.

"Sir. No, sir," Jacobs says. I can tell his brain is still going. He wants it out there. He thinks it is his trump card against me, but I'll throw away my career before I'll watch this little weasle crawl back into the swamp.

"So, Petty Officer Jacobs, you were Mr. Elsworth's inside man. Where would he go?" Chegwidden asks, by passing the unessential crap that we will most certainly be covering later.

"I don't know, sir. He told me to get the hell out. I did," Jacobs says, still looking at me out of the corner of his eye. I know he is lying. He knows everything about the operation, but he isn't going to be the one to break.

"That will be all for now. We will deal with the rest of the charges you are facing later, Petty Officer Jacobs. Agent Breen, can I have a few minutes alone with Commander Rabb?" the admiral asks without looking at any of us.

"Yeah. I'll check on how Agent Larson and Colonel MacKenzie are doing with Angie Elsworth. Let me know if you need anything," Breen says, escorting Jacobs out of the tiny room.

"So, Commander . . . is there anything you want to tell me?"

**************

Mac comes into the interrogation room, smiling as she looks down at the legal pad in her hand.

"Jeremy 'Crash' Lowman isn't only in love with Angie Elsworth. No, that would be too simple. He's her step-brother . . . Admiral . . . when did you get here?" Mac asks when she finally looks up from her notes. Her eyes travel from him to me and then back to him. I'm sure she can sense the tension in the air. Anyone could be able to by now.

"Oh, about an hour ago. Commander Rabb and I were just discussing some of the more recent developments in the case but we would love to hear your information, Colonel. I believe what we were talking about can wait until we all get back to DC, can't it, Commander?" the Admiral asks and Mac shifts nervously without even knowing what is going on.

"Yes, sir. I believe it can wait," I say, looking at Mac. Her eyes flutter shut for just a brief second and I will for her to pull it together long enough to get through this.

"Colonel?" the Admiral asks, indicating an empty chair for her to sit down on.

"Thank you, sir. Angie says that Jeremy Lowman's mother was married to Harlan Elsworth for five years from 1988 to 1993. Jeremy is not only acquainted with Angie but with her father, but I'm not sure which one is trying to protect the other more. And I think that is all it comes down to. Angie has her boyfriend deal with Andy's group so Jeremy makes some cash and then Jeremy protects Angie by having his group clean out that camp," Mac says, tapping her pen on the note pad the whole time. The Admiral watches her nervous behavior and finally puts his hand over hers briefly to stop it. "They are running more background checks on Jeremy right now."

"What's the FBI going to do next?" he asks, looking at one of the windows out to a hallway.

"Lowman and his mother live in a place called Chokoloskee. They are assembling a team right now to go find him. Not that he will lead them to Elsworth, but it's the only shot we've got," Mac says.

Agent Larson opens the door and pokes her head into the room. "I know you two are done with the capture of Jacobs, but I'd appreciate it if you would stay around town for a day or two to I.D. any suspects we might apprehend . . . if that is okay with you, Admiral?"

The Admiral sits for a moment in silence, considering what he's approving. "I really need you both back in DC by Monday."

"Aye aye, sir."

"Try to stay out of trouble. No trips into the Everglades. Not even to an Alligator Farm. That's an order."

"Yes, sir," we both answer.

"Now, I'm going to go deal with any future jurisdictional problems we might have over this kid. And hopefully, someone will have some very good answers as to how he got off that base with the weapons he did. Barring any more kidnappings or the two of you getting on a plane that gets hijacked to Cuba, I will see you in my office on Monday morning at 8 a.m.," the Admiral says, and we all stand up. Agent Larson holds the door open for him and he exits and she comes all the way into the room.

"So, you have the whole weekend on Miami Beach? What are you two kids going to be doing?" Agent Larson asks as she leans on the edge of the table.

"Trust me. Nothing," I say, as I gather my papers together off the table and put them in my briefcase, leaving Mac just to stare at me.

************

"He knows?" Mac asks, following me down the hall. She catches up to me and matches me stride for stride as I head for the nearest exit.

"You could say that," I say, holding the door open for her. She slips by me and out into the warm morning air. We've spent the entire night in the field office and I'm exhausted. Mac looks equally as tired as we walk out into the parking lot to the rental car someone got for us overnight. Someone also supplied us with a change of clothes sometime during the night. Agent Breen, I'm sure. Although the warm sweatsuits felt good in the over-air conditioned office space, they are far too warm out here.

She tips her face up toward the hazy sun and lets out a sigh. "And what did he say?" she asks.

"Surprisingly, not much," I say. I don't have much to say right now, either. "He said he would like to speak to us when we get back to DC. Would like for us to figure out what we'd like to do about any of this by then."

"What have we figured out, Harm?" Her voice has a slight hitch to it, like she's scared of my answer. Does she really think I'm just walking out on all of it right here? Right now?

"We've figured out that we have been up far too many hours. That we are going to go get breakfast because it has been how long since you've eaten? That we are going to wait for Agent Larson to call us back in on this and that it is nothing we could solve on our own," I say, reaching out to touch her arm.

"Is it something we are going to be able to figure out? You were the one he talked to. Is it something you figured out already?" Mac asks, squinting at me in the sunlight.

"I don't have the answers, Mac. He didn't sound very surprised, that was all I could tell, okay?" I tell her, walking to the passenger side of the car and unlocking the door for her. She climbs in and I shut it for her. We are simply far too tired to deal with this now.

**************

Mac picks at her breakfast before giving up on it entirely, which is quite a change of pace for her. I push aside my cup of coffee and open the newspaper to find the latest report on Elsworth and the apparent incompetence of the FBI and United States Military. Apparently, last night's arrests were made after press time.

"Do you think they will catch him in the next few days?" she asks, looking at the article I'm reading while she lazily stirs her coffee. Not that there is anything in her coffee to stir. I think it's so she has something to do. She already flipped through the world and local sections before her eggs and hash browns ever arrived.

"I think without a base camp, he'll have to come out sooner or later. He's lost Jacobs' support. And he'll come out for his daughter I'm sure. He doesn't have anywhere to go . . . in . . . the . . . 'glades . . ." I start to say. Mac looks at me curiously. "The cabin. Who in the hell did he keep saying it belonged to? Kurt someone."

"Jacobs would certainly know how to get there. And Jacobs is still in FBI custody awaiting trasfer." Mac scrambles to get her cell phone, and I hand her Agent Larson's card.

"If Elsworth's not there, Andy has base camps spread throughout that area. Our canoe tracks would have to still be visible through the sawgrass. Elsworth knows how to go to ground but the Everglades is only so big. He's got to come out sooner or later."

**************

 

"Didn't your Admiral Chegwidden tell you not to come anywhere near the Everglades?" Agent Larson asks as we get out of our car at the Shark Valley Visitor Center. Several government agencies have taken it over as a staging area as they prepare to sweep through this part of the Everglades the best they can in search for Elsworth. The place is bustling with activity.

"Commander Rabb has been known to occasionally . . . follow his own initiative," Mac says with a smile, as she looks out over the 'glades from an outside perspective. This is one of a few areas where people can see the wetlands without actually having to go too far into them. This one comes complete with a tram tour and hiking trails.

The ground is still wet after all that rain, and we sink into it where we are standing. The late afternoon sun combined with the humidity makes it almost unbearable, even in November. I watch as Mac casually shifts so her uniform shirt doesn't 'stick' to her chest and already the sweat is beginning to form across my forehead. Maybe going home to DC won't be so bad.

Breen walks over and stands by his partner's side. They both are wearing FBI windbreakers and must be about ready to die in this heat. "I didn't think the two of you would want to come within miles of here again."

"I'm sure we'll be okay if we stay here. I know you can do without our assistance out there," I say, nodding toward the south. I have no desire to ever go through that again. I haven't even put all the pieces of it together. Haven't quite figured out how what happened did happen, and I don't just mean between Mac and me.

"That's okay. We aren't even going out there. Between the other agents with far more experience in wilderness tracking and the park rangers, I think they will do just fine without us. Better, actually, without having to tell us not to touch the big, ugly spiders," Agent Larson says, making a face at the mention of spiders.

"SAC Darby wanted to see us," Agent Breen says to his partner. "If you will excuse us . . . oh, and don't go getting lost."

"We'll try not to," I say as the two partners walk off toward a larger group of agents all dressed in a variety of alphabet soup jackets.

Mac and I walk off toward one of the boardwalks overlooking the sawgrass, trying to stay out of the way.

"There's one thing I've never figured out, Mac, and I never really thought about it while we were in the middle of everything and maybe you didn't either, but it has something to do with what Jeremy said to us before he sent us off in that canoe," I say. We stop and lean against the railing, both of us staring out at the slow moving water.

"What's that?" she asks.

We haven't said much to each other in the last few hours. After stopping back at the field office and talking to Agents Larson and Breen, we went back to the beach resort, checked out and checked into a different motel. Into two separate rooms. After catching a few hours of sleep, we came out here. And traveled in silence.

"Remember he said the deal fell through and that is why he was letting us go. Elsworth certainly never acted like any deal fell through. Sure, he wasn't happy we were there, but he didn't look like a man short on supplies because of a deal falling through. The deal must have fallen apart somewhere else," I say. Something swishes around underneath us and we both back up a little.

"Jacobs and Andy? Or Jacobs and Jeremy? Those could be the only two places, if it wasn't between Andy and Elsworth. Or maybe Andy and Elsworth have been in this together the whole time. The only way we will know is to drag Elsworth out of there. Or to find Andy," Mac says, nodding toward miles and miles of nothing but wet muck.

We both turn as footsteps slowly make their way down the boardwalk. Agent Larson is carrying a file in her hand and now has her long, brown hair tucked up in an FBI ballcap. It is damp now with sweat and the heat isn't goint to break any time soon.

"I didn't mean to disturb you, but I thought you would like to see this. Someone finally thought to get us the background check on Jeremy Lowman. Angie seems to have left out a few details. Appears he's one of yours, Commander. He's still in the Navy but he's on some sort of extended leave. For an illness in the family."

*************

Mac and I knock on the door of Jeremy Lowman's last known address. It certainly isn't the one Angie Elsworth gave. I'm not sure who she's trying to protect more. Her father, Jeremy or David Jacobs.

It is a decent house in a quiet neighborhood. It isn't a newer development, but it has a certain 'Florida' charm to it, right down to the pink flamingo pinwheel stuck in the front lawn.

"Can I help you?" a woman asks as she opens the door. She is African-American and is wearing peach colored nursing scrubs with a name tag that identifies her as Leticia from the Visiting Nurses Association. She has a stethoscope around her neck and is holding onto a blood pressure cuff in her hands.

"I'm Lt. Cmdr. Harmon Rabb and this is Colonel MacKenzie and we are looking for Petty Officer Jeremy Lowman. He wouldn't happen to be here?" I ask as we both hold up our picture IDs for her to inspect. Agent Larson said some people might be wary of any uniforms around here and to use the IDs. She then said they might still be suspicious of us.

The woman shakes her head from side to side.

"We haven't seen Jeremy 'round here in almost a week," she says with a slight Creole accent and Mac and I look at each other. Damn. The thing I feared most is that they did something to him because he let us go.

"How about his mother? Is she here?" Mac asks, trying to look over the nurse's shoulder.

"Ms. Lowman's here, but she's not very well," Leticia says, holding her ground about letting us in. "I'm afraid it would be impossible for you to see her now."

"We really need to speak to her. It's an emergency, actually. Could you please tell Ms. Lowman that we are here," I tell her as Mac and I stand our ground with her. I didn't come all this way to get the brush off by a nurse.

"Oh . . . I'll be right back," she says, shutting the door on our faces.

"You don't think . . ." Mac asks as soon as the woman is out of earshot.

"I hope not. Agent Larson said she'd call us if they found anything . . . or if they gave up for the night," I say, looking up at the sky as it begins to show off for sunset. We haven't accomplished much today, or at least it doesn't feel like it. Not compared to all the work that went on around us. I felt like we were spinning our wheels, until this news dropped in our lap.

The door opens up again and the nurse begrudgingly invites us in. "Ms. Lowman says you can come in."

Letitia escorts us into the bedroom where a woman is in a hospital bed, watching the early evening news on TV. She is pale and thin, her head wrapped in some sort of scarf. All we could find out was that she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer and Jeremy asked for emergency leave not long afterward. He is . . . or was . . . her only surviving family member.

She moves slightly and looks at us. Her eyes look tired and like she's been fighting a long battle. "Do you know something about my son?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am. We were hoping you'd be able to help us. We haven't seen him for a few days, either," Mac says, walking closer to Ms. Lowman. "I'm Colonel MacKenzie. This is my partner, Commander Rabb . . . we were with your son just the other day, Ms. Lowman. Do you have any idea where he might be?"

"You mean besides the stupid swamp? No. If he's not there or with Angie, then I don't know," she says with a disappointed sigh.

"Did he see a lot of Angie, ma'am? Since he's been home?" I ask. She rolls around again and looks out the window toward a canal in her backyard. There is a sailboat tied up there, but no sign of any airboats.

"He talked about her, but she never came around here. She's still upset, about her dad and all. Nor did that other friend of his . . ."

"David?" Mac asks.

"Yes. Him. I'd hear him making plans with them, but they would never stop by. Or else he'd be making friends with that . . . that Andy. I didn't like that at all. He was too strange. Too old to be hanging out with those kids," she says with a heavy sigh. I can tell she's getting tired already.

I take a glance around her room as Mac continues to talk to her. On her dresser, there's a row of pictures, mostly of Jeremy. He looks like he was a good kid and I wish I knew how he got into this mess. There are several pictures of him in uniform and on shore leave in various places around the world. And there is the same picture that we saw in the trailer, with Angie and David.

"Do you know where we might be able to find Andy?" Mac asks as I go and stand by her side.

"Yeah. Where you can always find Andy when he's not doing something illegal. At the Crazy Flamingo Lounge on Seagrape Avenue with all the other drunks," Ms. Lowman says with a snort. She's getting far too tired to answer too many more questions. "Can you please go and see if he knows anything about my son. I really want to see Jeremy before . . ."

"We'll try, Ms. Lowman," I say.

"Ms. Lowman, do you have any idea where your ex-husband Harlan might be?" Mac asks and the woman's eyes flutter closed.

"People keep asking me that. I haven't known where Harlan has been for years . . . Jeremy might know . . . Angie," she says, her voice barely audible.

"I really think you should be going," the nurse says, putting her hands on her hips.

I escort Mac out of the room. Letitia follows us to show us to the door, shutting it firmly behind us.

"Mac, do you think we're dressed well enough for the Crazy Flamingo Lounge?" I ask, opening the car door for her. The wind picks up and the pinwheel wings of the yard decoration begin to spin on the other side of the driveway.

"I'm pretty sure any place Andy hangs out has no dress code."

****************

"Agent Breen has been in contact with the local authorities about picking up Andy . . . who doesn't seem to have a last name," I say as I hang up the cell phone, looking at the front entrance to the Crazy Flamingo from the car. We don't know if he's in there or not, but we certainly have no way to go in and apprehend him. "We've been invited along to provide a positive ID and then the FBI or the ATF or someone will come and collect him. That is if he's here."

"How hard can it be to come up with his last name? How many 'Andy the Small Arms Dealers' can there be in a town this size?" Mac asks, looking out the window at the run down buildings lining the road. "How come they just don't know this Andy as the small arms dealer?"

"You'd be surprised," I say as a car pulls up next to us. Three men get out, all with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, carrying beer bottles already. Judging by their clothes, I'd say they all were commercial fisherman and they probably smoke they don't have to smell each other or themselves.

Besides them, a few people have gone into the lounge since we arrived, but nobody has come out. Of course, it is a little early for people to be coming out yet. Mac lets out a soft sigh as we wait.

"What's wrong?" I ask as she softly drums her fingers against the armrest. "Ready to go in there and get him?"

"Something changed between us after we came out of the Everglades," she says, looking at me instead of looking at the buildings or the front door or whatever. "It has taken a while, but we are slowly going back to what we were . . . before."

"Mac, come on. Let's just get this finished first before we begin to work on any relationship issues just yet. We knew it wasn't going to be easy, and now with the Admiral . . ." I start to say and a man knocks on the window. He slaps a badge up against the glass and we both get out of the car.

"I'm Det. Joel Watts and this is my partner Det. Mervin Jones. I'm assuming you are the two JAG lawyers the FBI told us about?" Det. Watts asks.

"We are. I'm Commander Rabb and this is Colonel MacKenzie," I say, nodding at Mac. Det. Jones seems to be quite taken with her, his eyes traveling all over her body. I've learned from years of experience that Mac can stick up for herself.

"We're just waiting on some deputy sheriff cruisers to arrive for back-up before we go in. Sometimes they can be an unruly bunch in there and I'm sure you don't want to try this alone," Jones says with a smirk on his face. "You know, being a bunch of office types like yourselves."

No wonder Andy has gone unnoticed so long here. They probably don't care. He's probably a friend of theirs and they're only doing this because they know the FBI is coming in after him. Mac moves in closer to Jones and looks him straight in the eye. "Let's not talk about being an 'office type' until you've been shot out of the sky somewhere over Russia, okay?"

Jones takes a step back from her and Watts seems to find the whole exchange laughable. I'm sure he would take some serious ribbing except for the fact that two Collier County sheriff's patrol cars pull up behind us. "Good. Reinforcements," Watts says as he goes to talk to them.

"Hopefully, this will all be over soon," I mutter as the police all gather and laugh about something.

"Yes. Over so we can just go home," Mac says as she walks away from me.

**************

The Crazy Flamingo is filled with a hazy layer of smoke. Some people quiet down when we come through the door, but most just go about their business, glad that the sheriff's deputies aren't coming for them as they pass them by.

The person known to us only as Andy is sitting at the bar, drunkenly laughing it up with companions. He's got a long neck bottle of beer in his hand and his bloodshot eyes keep going to the score of the game on the TV set above the bar.

He doesn't see us coming in his intoxicated haze until we are standing right behind him. Only then does he go to make a move, and he nearly slips off his barstool. I grab him before he can go anywhere, even the floor.

"Don't move," I say, gripping his shoulder tight, my fingers sinking into his skin and muscles this time. My words echo what he told me just days ago, when he was in control. Now it is my turn. "Where you thinking of moving?"

"Well . . ." he slurs, looking at me and then leering at Mac. "Look at what came crawling out of the swamp. Course . . . I heard you had a little help."

"Where's Jeremy Lowman?" Mac asks, getting in his face, undaunted by him or his drunkenness.

"Gosh, I wish I could tell you . . . what are you again? A captain?" Andy says as the sheriff's deputies step in behind him to apprehend him.

"Lt. Colonel MacKenzie," she says, her voice low and threatening. He merely blinks his glassy eyes at her and takes a step back.

"A colonel. Yeah. Right. But I'll just let these boys read me my rights first, okay? And then I'll call me a lawyer. Unless you two are available . . . no, didn't think so," he says after she gives him a look that could kill. Mac takes a step closer to him, but I catch her arm.

"Mac, come on," I say, pulling her to the side as Det. Watts steps in and pulls a little card out of his pocket, going through the Miranda warnings with a man who can only slur his responses. Not that he'll be able to answer any questions any time soon anyway. He'll probably puke in the car and then fall asleep.

Det. Jones approaches us, shaking his head. "This man masterminded kidnapping the two of you?"

"He had help," Mac declares quickly, touching the small scar still healing on her head from where they hit her.

"Agent Breen with the FBI field office in Miami said someone would be here for him soon. Think you can handle it?" I say, nodding at Andy being led out of the Crazy Flamingo. His friends are now starting to shout their protests, but most go back to watching the game and sucking down their beers as soon as he's out the door.

"We can take it from here, Commander," the detective says, giving both of us a snide look.

"Good," Mac says, weaving her way between the bar tables toward the door. I follow as fast as I can. Before we can reach the car, my pager goes off.

"Agent Larson wants us back at the field office," I say, looking at the display screen and then at Mac.

"No hint as to why?" Mac asks as she waits climbs in the car. Her eyes meet mine briefly before she looks up at the sky. The sun has turned it bright pink now and it will be dark by the time we get back to Miami.

"Not a single one."

**************

"He hasn't said much since they picked him up," Agent Larson says, as we walk down the corridor of Jackson Memorial Hospital. Breen instructed us to meet her here after we arrived back at the field office. "He certainly hasn't told us where to find Elsworth. Maybe the two of you can get some answers."

"Where did they find him?" Mac asks as we pass through a series of automatic doors. Larson shows the man at the door her badge and okays our entry into the room.

"Clinging to life on some hammock out there in the sawgrass is the best I can tell you. He was pretty badly beaten and left for dead. That kid is lucky to be alive, but he won't tell us who left him there or how he got there. He says he wants to talk to the two of you," she answers. I can barely make him out through the glass window, but I can tell it is the person who was introduced to us simply as 'Crash.'

Mac and I enter his room and he turns his head toward us, a glimmer of recognition crossing his face. He tries to smile but it must hurt. He's sunburned badly and covered with insect bites.

"Sir, ma'am . . . I'm sorry . . ." he starts to say, but ends up coughing. "I didn't mean to lie to you like I did. I didn't have much of a choice."

"We saw your mother earlier today. She's worried about you," Mac says and he squints his eyes at her. This kid has been hurt a lot in the last few days and he doesn't look like he knows who to trust anymore.

"Did Andy do this, Petty Officer Lowman?" I ask, and but he doesn't answer. "Because you let us go?"

"I threatened to turn Jacobs in . . . Jacobs started to get scared to deal with Andy. Started to think about dealing with Harlan himself. Andy didn't want to lose the money, sir," Lowman says, looking away from us.

"Why are you involved in any of this at all?" Mac asks, and he turns to her, his eyes glimmering with tears. "Is it because of Angie? Or your mother?"

"Harlan is so unpredictable. You want to know why he started this campaign against the sugar cane famers? He thinks that's how my mother got her cancer . . . from the wastes they are dumping into the 'glades. They've been divorced for years and he still went off the deep end. I though if I could get involved, I could protect Angie. I could protect Mom. It was stupid," he says, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Do you know where Harlan is?" Mac asks. He shakes his head from side to side slowly and the tears finally fall.

"I don't know . . . I can't even imagine where he would go. How much trouble am I in, ma'am?" he asks, his voice cracking. His eyes look from Mac to me, imploring for some idea as to what is going to happen next.

"Don't worry about that yet, Petty Officer. You just worry about getting better right now, then we'll figure out what happened," I tell him but his fears don't look allayed at all.

"I n-need to see my mother, sir. I can't . . . I need to see her," he says, tears falling faster. Agent Larson grabs a box of tissues off a cart and hands them to him.

"Jeremy, there will be some people here to watch you, okay?" Larson asks as she nods her head at the man at the door. Lowman's eyes look toward the door and he doesn't look back at us. "We'll see what we can arrange with your mother."

"If you remember anything else, call us," Mac tells him as Agent Larson moves us out of the room. A nurse takes our place at his bedside making him comfortable again.

**********

"What now?" Mac asks Larson as we go to our cars parked in the hospital garage.

"Now we keep the manhunt up for Elsworth. He's still got a lot of men around him, so it's not like he's surviving alone out there . . . or wherever he is by now. But sooner or later he's got to slip up. If something happens early tomorrow, I'll be in touch. If not, you two enjoy your last day here and have a safe trip back to DC," Larson says with a smile as she opens the door to her car. "And of course, we will be in contact with you there concerning Lowman. Or you will be in contact with us. Whatever."

"I'll give your or Breen a call to get an update tomorrow . . . and Monday," I say and she just nods as she climbs in her car and shuts the door.

Mac and I watch as she pulls out of the lot into traffic. "What now?"

"Wait. See if they come up with something tomorrow morning and then I guess we can go home in the afternoon," I say as we walk slowly to our car. Before we get there, she reaches out for my hand, her fingertips wrapping around mine.

"Harm . . ."

"I'm not trying to push you away, Mac," I say, not letting go of her fingers when we get to the car. She looks down at the cement floor of the parking garage and scrapes her foot across the yellow line between the cars.

"I feel a 'but' coming on here," she says, her eyes coming up to meet mine.

"No . . . no 'buts.' Just some questions, that's all," I say, taking her other hand in mine, too. We stand there, facing each other but saying nothing just yet. I kept trying to convince myself we could push all of this off until 'tomorrow' and now it is finally here. Time to deal with it.

"Should we talk about it . . . about us?" she asks, her eyes looking away briefly. I remember how I used to brush off talking about our relationship so easily in the past. I would just avoid all those feelings, telling her we were only 'partners,' not married or some other bullshit line. That isn't going to work anymore.

"Do I have a choice?" I ask, giving her a quick smile as I say it. She just smiles back.

"Not anymore. You gave up your choice to talk about it a few days ago, Harm. Welcome to the wonderful world of adult relationships. We've got to talk," she says, pulling me toward her. Wrapped in each other's arms, we stand there, watching several cars go by, tires squealing on their way out of the garage.

"Okay. But let's get out of here. This is South Florida. There's got to be somewhere better to talk than a parking garage. Are you hungry?" I ask, knowing we are headed down that slippery slope once we leave this place and get out of these uniforms. Once we step out of who we are, even just briefly, we have a hard time getting back. Maybe once we are in DC, it will all change. It might have to.

***********

I follow her into the tiny restaurant and slowly realize how many heads she does turn when she's not dressed up in her Marine greens. Not that Mac isn't beautiful no matter what she's wearing, but not quite like this.

It is late, long past the dinner hour, leaving it quiet in this little cafe. A few late night diners still remain, mostly young couples engaged in intimate conversation. There are a few groups of business men, probably here for some convention, and they are the ones who's attention Mac has captured. We are seated in a dark corner of the restaurant and told that our waiter would be right with us.

Mac looks at me from across the table, eyes unable to disguise her concern over what she thinks is going to have to happen. Somehow, out in the swamp and in that beach motel, DC seemed so far away. The Admiral finding out was up to us, not his intuition and a few words of some UA sailor. Now, he knows and he wants us to tell him how we intend to deal with the issue by Monday morning at 0800.

Issue. We are an issue. Somehow, I knew we would be.

Mac scans the menu quickly, but doesn't seem that interested in anything on it. We're here to talk, yet I can't figure out what words to say. I don't know how to make it all work without it getting complicated. I never have. That is why we never moved this far before. I couldn't make it work easily. I like my life to be easy. Mac makes it complicated.

The waiter approaches us and we place our orders. Mac no longer has a menu to hide behind. I can no longer hide behind her hiding. I know I shouldn't feel that way, after everything that happened, but I can't help it. I just don't know where to go.

She places her hand palm side up halfway across the table and motions for me to hold her hand. I do, my fingers resting upon hers, clutching on.

"Do you think they'll ever find him?" I ask, slipping back into my other self. The one who doesn't have to worry about relationships and how much I love the person sitting across from me and how much we might get hurt from all this.

"Elsworth? I suppose with the network he had set up, he could stay hidden for a while. I still don't get it all, Harm. Why he did what he did. I suppose until they can bring him in for questioning, we never will," she says, her fingers so warm under mine. She can be so warm and I don't know how I thought I could stop this once I started it.

"Why do any of us do what we do?" I ask, giving her what I know is a smile that's just a little too smug for the situation. She moves her hand from under mine.

We say nothing personal to each other, but simply discuss the events that just happened without discussing what really happened. I know we have to.

The waiter circles around the table again, putting our food in front of us. Mac and I do nothing more than move the food around the plate, taking a bite here or there. Looking up at each other occasionally.

"So, is this my good-bye dinner?" she ask, picking at her meal. Her eyes don't meet mine after that question. Don't come up off the food on the plate. I settle back in my seat, trying to prepare for what is coming next.

"Mac, what are we going to do? You tell me what you want me to do. This won't work with us in the same office, going head to head on some of these cases. You want me to transfer somewhere? Or do you want to? How about I resign my commission and go into civilian law. Or better yet, fly commercially. I would suggest that you resign but you pulled that trick once before . . . and I'm sure you wouldn't want to go there for me," I say and she places her fork too noisily on the side of her plate. A few other diners look but turn quickly instead of catching hell from her eyes.

"Did he say end it? You never were very clear on what you and Admiral Chegwidden discussed. So, he knows. So, we have to deal with the issue. What does that mean exactly?" she asks, her voice piqued with both anger and sadness.

"I, uh . . ." I try to answer. I always assumed dealing with the issue meant ending it and resuming life as it was before we went out into the swamp.

"And how do you know I wouldn't give it all up for you, Harm? Did you ever ask? Maybe I would. Probably not, but just maybe. But you know what would be nice is if just once . . . once you said you'd be willing to give it all up for me. I know you never would, but dammit, I'd love to hear it," Mac says, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms over her chest.

I don't even know how to answer her. This isn't how I imagined any of this going. Of course, these last days have been unimaginable. Before we left DC, had someone told me Mac and I would be taken hostage in the Everglades and become lovers, I would have laughed. I guess I just haven't reconciled everything with myself yet.

"Mac, are you leaving me?" I ask and she gives me a startled look.

"Maybe we are leaving each other?" she asks. Or says. I'm not sure if it was meant to be a question.

"Maybe," I answer. Or say back. I pick up the glass of water in front of me and take a sip but after that exchange it tastes like drinking water through an old garden hose. Nothing is going to taste good for a while. A long while.

*************

"Nice to have you back, sir. The Admiral is waiting for you. Colonel MacKenzie is already in there," Tiner says, catching me as soon as I walk through the doors. I look at my watch to find that its 0755 already on a rainy, cold Monday morning.

"Thanks, Tiner. It's good to be back. I'll be right there," I say to him as I begin to maneuver my way around everybody to my office. I drop off my briefcase and take a deep breath. Mac and I haven't said anything since we left the airport. I didn't call and our stories certainly aren't straight. The best we can say is we are working out this issue by ending the issue entirely.

I knock on the door and the Admiral calls for me to come in. Mac is already sitting in front of his desk and she doesn't turn her head when I come in the room. I stand in front of his desk, but behind her until he says something.

"At ease, Commander. Have a seat," he says, his face already set in a scowl. Wonderful. Upon sitting down, I look over at Mac quickly, but she doesn't look back. "I assume that anything we discussed last week has been worked out?"

I watch him as he leans forward towards his desk and looks from me to Mac. The only noise in the room is the constant ticking of the clock and the rustle of Mac and I moving slightly in the leather chairs.

She's the one who answers first. Mac sits up straight, looks at me quickly and then back at him. "Yes, sir. It will not be a problem again," she says, her voice confident. He looks to me for confirmation.

"There are other options . . ." he starts to say, but his voice trails off.

"Yes, sir. But for now, any of the options aren't viable, so like the Colonel said, it won't be a problem again," I say, hearing her breath catch when I finish. I am so familiar with every little sound she makes now that I know what she's thinking. We are both thinking the same thing. This has to be no matter how much we wish it were otherwise.

The Admiral watches us, trying to determine if he can believe us or not. We must appear convincing, because he leans back in his chair and goes to the next issue of the day.

"I took a call from Agent Nicole Larson earlier this morning and they found Harlan Elsworth late yesterday afternoon," he says, and both Mac and I sit up a little more in our seats. "Unfortunately, they found him dead. Something about a cabin in the Everglades. She said you would know . . ."

"Yes, sir," Mac says quickly, wanting to move past that issue.

"Apparently, their main suspect is Petty Officer Jeremy Lowman, and she wanted to know how we planned on dealing with any charges the two of you brought up against or were bringing against him," he says, reaching for a file on his desk and opening it.

"Petty Officer Lowman is suspected of murdering Elsworth?" Mac asks as if she missed that part or just can't believe it.

"They have a witness that puts the two of them together about two hours before the estimated time of Elsworth's death, assuming the ME got it right. According to Agent Larson, the body was found sprawled out face down on a mattress in this cabin and the temperatures . . . I'm sure you can imagine that the decay was formidable. The cabin has been swept for evidence to back up this eyewitness, considering his credibility is low," The Admiral finishes, placing the file back on his desk.

"And we are going to be involved how, sir?" I ask, really wishing this was all done with. I know we are handling David Jacobs, but this is unexpected.

"It seems Petty Officer Lowman would like to speak to you, Commander, before he will speak to the FBI. They are hoping for a confession, but that's the one holdup. You leave again for Florida early tomorrow morning. I'm aware that both you and Colonel MacKenzie have quite a lot of catching up to do . . . I saw the piles on your desks. This shouldn't take too long. If anything comes up that requires immediate attention, the Colonel and Commander Brumby will be able to handle it. And that will be all for now," the Admiral says.

"Aye aye, sir," we both say, standing up and turning for the door. We somehow manage to reach for the doorknob at the same time, our hands resting on top of each other's on the knob. I hear the Admiral mutter something from behind his desk as the two of us just stare at each other, stuck at this impasse.

"Commander, could I have a word with you?" the Admiral says and I lift my hand off of Mac's and she exits quickly, giving me one last look before going on her way.

"Yes, sir?" I ask, turning around and not moving. He gets up from his chair and walks over to where I am, standing directly in front of me.

"I've watched this . . . this thing, for lack of a better word, simmer around here for years. I don't want to ever have to get involved in matters like this again. Do you understand?" he says, his eyes intensely focused on mine.

"Yes, sir," I say, not knowing where this is headed to.

"Has it run its course? Will the two of you be able to work together as before?" he asks, crossing his arms in front of him.

"It's run its course as far as it can go for now, sir. Mac and I should have no problem working together," I say, not knowing if that is true or not. We couldn't even get out the damn door together.

He moves away from me and leans on the his desk, looking serious -- yet, at the same time his expression shows something else, too? Sympathy? That isn't quite it. Concern? Maybe that's it. Concern about what's going to happen in his office because of this, probably. He couldn't give a damn about the rest of it.

"What is it, Commander? You don't think I've never made a mistake in the past?" he asks when he notices my stare. He just shakes his head slowly and smiles when I don't know what to answer. "I'm not saying this was a mistake . . . hell, just don't be surprised if she gets on with her life now. And when she does, don't let it get in the way of what has to be done around here."

"Aye, aye, sir," I answer. It never occurred to me that we will now have to get on with our lives in more settings than just the office. It is all so recent and fresh. I can almost feel her . . .

"Dismissed," he says, but the look of concern is still there. Not even the Admiral believes we can get this to work this way. I can't see how it is going to work *anyway* that we try it.

************

I stand outside Mac's apartment door, not knowing what I'm doing here exactly. I have to catch a flight to Miami in four hours but everything is just so . . . unsettled. I watched her spend the afternoon working with Brumby on a case going to trial in the next week and she was trying so hard with him. Damn. What have I done?

She doesn't answer my knocking right away, but I know she's on the other side of the door. I recognize the quiet sound of her slumping against the door after realizing who's here.

"What do you need, Harm?" she calls through the door after nearly a minute. She'd probably tell me it was only 58 seconds. About the length of our relationship.

"I would like to talk to you, Mac," I say, tempted to call her Sarah but am afraid I'll hear a sarcastic 'humff' on the other side of the door.

"Does this have something to do with work?"

"Come on, Mac. You know it doesn't. Please," I say, resting my head against the door. I can almost feel her there, right there. Leaning back on the other side. "Please, open the door."

And she does. I walk into her apartment and she just shuts the door, leaning back against it. She pulls her bathrobe around her tighter and crosses her arms protectively over her chest.

"What did you want to say?" she asks, her voice low. She looks like she might have been crying at one point overnight, but I could be wrong. The only light is coming from the other room and I can't make out much. She brushes her hair out of her eyes before putting her arms across her chest again. I stand facing her, not knowing what in the hell I'm supposed to do with myself or my hands.

"The whole time we were out there, we questioned what would happen when we got back. We always knew that this could be the outcome . . ."

"Harm, I don't want to do this again," she says, looking down at the floor and away from me.

" . . . I just didn't know the outcome would hurt this much," I finish. She looks back up at me. "It hurts, Mac, and there's nothing I can do to make it go away for me or for you."

She uncrosses her arms and presses down the front of her robe before pulling the belt around her waist tighter. She sighs softly. Yes, she's been crying and I can't make it better.

"I know what we said. I knew it was going to come to this. But I thought we'd have a chance to make it work. I . . . a-ache from wanting . . . not like that, but my heart aches from wanting something I can't have. Something I did have and it's like . . . you've been taken from me. I guess I just tricked myself into believing that we could make it out of there unscathed. That you and I have made it through worse and we'd survive this, too. We'd make it work," she says, and I can see she's trying hard to maintain her Marine composure.

"Mac, I've got to go back there in four hours and I don't want to. You aren't the only one who misses it. I was lying there in bed half the night missing you . . . knowing you were all the way over here," I say and she finally takes one step away from the door.

"But what are we going to do?" she asks again. Another step. One step closer to me and I can't help but want to hold her.

"Wait until the time is right," I say, closing my eyes as she takes the next step. All I ever do is ask her to wait. Now, after everything, I'm doing it again.

"What if it is never right?" she asks and I open my eyes to find her standing directly in front of me. I end up with her hands in mine and I don't have any idea how we are going to do this. The only way would be for one of us to leave, resign . . . whatever. Too much damn career ambition in our way for that to happen. Or for one of us to freeze the other out until they found another life . . . until the hurt went away.

"Someday . . ." I say to her, letting go of her hands. Her arms wrap around me and we stand there, in her living room, so far away from that damned swamp, just holding on to each other.

"Someday. Do you intend to keep that promise?" she asks and I know I have no right to keep her hanging like this but what are we supposed to do? Neither of us is willing to budge, both too stubborn to give it all up.

"That's one promise I intend to keep," I whisper, as I hold on to her tighter. "Someday, Mac."

************

The End


End file.
